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c4- X 






THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



WILLIAM MOTHEEWELL. 



WITH 



A MEMOIR OF HIS LIFE. 



A NEW EDITION, 



CONTAINING HIS 



POSTHUMOUS WRITINGS. 



BOSTON: 
TICKNOR, REED, AND FIELDS 

M DCCC LIII. 






InEsehange 
Univ. of North OarottM 
JAN 3 1 1934 



CAMBRIDGK: 
METCALF AND COMPANY, 

PRINTERS TO THE UNIVERSITY. 



ix^ 



TO 



LADY CAMPBELL. 



THIS NEW AND ENLARGED EDITION 



OF THE POEMS OF HER KINS]VL\N, 



WILLIAM MOTHERWELL, 



IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED, 



BY 



THE PUBLISHER. 



CONTENTS. 



PA«E 

MEMOIK Xi 

POEMS. 

THE BATTLE-FLAG OF SIGUKD 61 

THE WOOING SONG OF JARL EGILL SKALLAGRIJI • • 72 

THE SWORD CHANT OF THORSTEIN RAUDI ... 79 

JEANIE BIORRISON 84 

MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND. WILLIE . . * . . 89 

THE madman's LOVE 93 

HALBERT THE GRIM 110 

TRUE love's DIRGE 115 

THE DEMON LADY 120 

ZARA 124 

ouglotj's onslaught 127 

elfinland wud 132 

midnight and moonshine 139 

THE water! THE WATER ! 145 

THREE fanciful SUPPOSES 149 



VIU CONTENTS. 

A CAVEAT TO THE WIND 151 

WHAT IS GLORY? WHAT IS FAME? .... 154 

THE SOLE3IN SONG OF A EIGHTEOUS HEARTE . . 156 

3IELANCHOLTE 160 

I AM .NOT SAD 164 

THE JOTS OF THE WILDERNESS 168 

A SOLEMN CONCEIT 170 

THE EXPATRIATED ....... 173 

PACTS FROM FAIRT-LAND 176 

CERTAIN PLEASANT VERSES TO THE LADY OF MY HEART 179 

BENEATH A PLACID BROW 182 

THE covenanters' BATTLE-CHANT . . . . 184 

TIM THE TACKET 187 

THE witches' ,/OYS 192 

A SABBATH SUMMER NOON 197 

A MONODY 203 

THEY COME ! THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS . . . 208 

CHANGE SWEEPETH OVER ALL 212 

SONGS. 

o, wae be to the orders . . . . . .217 

wearie's well 220 

SONG OF THE DANISH SEA-KING 223 

THE cavalier's SONG 226 

THE MERRY GALLANT 228 

THE knight's song 230 

THE trooper's DITTY 232 

HE IS GONE ! HE IS GONE ! . . . . . . 235 

THE forester's CAROL 237 



CONTENTS. IX 

MAY MORN SONG 239 

THE BLOOM HATH FLED THY CHEEK, MARY . . .241 

IN THE QUIET AND SOLEMN NIGHT .... 244 

THE VOICE OF LOVE . • 246 

AWAY ! AWAY ! O, DO NOT SAY 248 

O agony! keen agony 250 

THE SERENADE 251 

COULD LOVE IMPART '254 

THE PARTING 257 

love's DIET 259 

THE MIDNIGHT WIND 2G1 

ADDITIONAL POEMS. 

THE WAITHMAN'S WAIL 2G5 

THE troubadour's LAMENT 269 

WHEN I BENEATH THE COLD, RED EARTH AM SLEEPING 272 

SPIRITS OF LIGHT ! SPIRITS OF SHADE ! . . . 275 

THE crusader's FAREWELL 282 

THE MIDNIGHT LAMP 283 

COME DOWN, YE SPIRITS ! 285 

DING DONG ! 287 

QLERKE RICHARD AND MAID MARGARET . . . 289 

LORD ARCHIBALD: A BALLAD 293 

AND HAVE I GAZED ? 300 

SHE is NOT DEAD 303 

SWEET EARLSBURN, BLITHE EARLSBURN . . . 306 

BEGONE, BEGONE, THOU TRUANT TEAR . . . 308 

O, BABBLE NOT TO ME, GRAY EILD .... 310 

SONNET : THE PATRIOT'S DEATH 312 



X. CONTENTS. 

SONNET : PALE DAUGHTER OF THE NIGHT . . .314 
SONNET : THE HAND's WILD GRASP . . . . 315 

SONNET : SILVERY HAIRS 316 

LADY MARGARET: A BALLAD 317 



The Posthumous Poems arc placed at the end of this volume, 
and are paged separately. 



MEMOIR 



OF 



WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 



MEMOIR. 



William Motherwell was born at Glasgow, on the 13th 
day of October, 1797.* He was the third son of William 
Motherwell, a native of Stirlingshire, who settled in that city 
about the year 1792, where he followed the business of an iron- 
monger.! His mother's name was Elizabeth Barnet, the daughter 
of William Barnet, a respectable farmer in the parish of Auch- 
terarder, in Perthshire, who, at her father's death, inherited a 
little fortune of two thousand pounds. Early in the present 
century, his father removed with his family to Edinburgh, where 
his son was placed under the charge of Mr. William Lenuie, an 
eminent teacher of English in that city, and the author of several 
useful and popular school-books ; and it was while attending this 
school that the boy met " Jeanie Morrison," a mild and bashful 
girl, whose name he afterwards immortalized, and of whose 
gentle nature he retained through life the most pleasing recol- 

* The house in which this event took place was situated at the 
south corner of College Street, fronting High Street. 

t Mr. Motherwell's family consisted of three sons, — David, 
John, and William, — and three daughters, — Margaret, Amelia, 
and Elizabeth, — of whom his eldest daughter, Margaret, alone 
survives. 



XIV MEMOIR. 

lections. The first draught of his poem is said to have been 
made at fourteen years of age, and. as he has himself recorded, 
they never met after leaving school.* As the reader cannot 
fail to be gratified by an account of the poet's juvenile history, 
I transcribe the following details, which have been obligingly 
communicated to the publisher by Mr. Lennie himself: — 

" William Motherwell entered my school, then kept at No. 8 
Crichton Street, in the neighborhood of George Square, on the 
24th of April, 1805, and left it for the High School here on the 
1st day of October, 1808. He was between seven and eight 
years old when he joined, an open-faced, firm, and cheerful- 
looking boy. He began at the alphabet, and though he did not 
at first display any uncommon ability, his mind soon opened 
up, and as he advanced in his education he speedily manifested 
a superior capacity, and ultimately became the best scholar in 
the school ; yet he never showed any of that petulant or super- 
cilious bearing which some children discover who see themselves 
taken notice of for the quickness of their parts ; he was, on the 
contrary, kind and accommodating, always ready to help those 
who applied to him for assistance, and a first-rate hand at carry- 
ing on sport during the hours of recreation. Besides acquiring 
a fair knowledge of geography, which was taught in the higher 
classes, and becoming well acquainted with the principles of 
English grammar, he, during the last twelve or eighteen months 
of his attendance at my school, devoted two separate hours daily 
to arithmetic and writing, in the latter of which especially he 

* dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
Since we were sindered young, 
I 've never seen your face, nor heard 
The music o' your tongue. 



MEMOIR. XV 

excelled. In the course of a single year, he wrote an excellent 
small, distinct hand ; so good, indeed, was it, that few are able 
to do any thing like it, even after several years' practice. He 
also filled up skeleton maps so neatly, that at first sight they 
might have been mistaken for copperplate engravings. During 
the last year he was with me, ' Wilson's Sentimental Scenes ' 
were introduced into the upper classes. The reading of these 
sketches delighted him exceedingly; and he entered so com- 
pletely into the spirit of the pieces, that he made the characters 
his (Fwn, and appeared to be a Roscius in miniature, a thing I 
have never found a boy to do but himself. 

" Jane ( Jeanie) Morrison was the daughter of one of the most 
respectable brewers and corn-factors then in Alloa. She came 
to Edinburgh to finish her education, and was in my school 
with William Motherwell during the last year of his course. 
She was about the same age with himself, a pretty girl, and of 
good capacity. Her hair was of a lightish brown, approaching 
to fair ; her eyes were dark, and had a sweet and gentle expres- 
sion ; her temper was mild, and her manners unassuming. Her 
dress was also neat and tidy. In winter, she wore a pale-blue 
pelisse, then the fashionable color, and a light-colored beaver 
with a feather. She made a great impression on young Mother- 
well, and that it was permanent his beautiful ballad shows. At 
the end of the season she returned to her parents at Alloa, with 
whom she resided till the time of her marriage. She is now a 
widow, with a family of three children, all of whom are grown 
up, and, I believe, doing well."* 

* I had the pleasure of a slight acquaintance with this lady in 
after life, as Mrs. Murdoch. Her husband was a respectable mer- 
chant in this city, and died about the year 1828. She was, when 



XVI MEMOIR. 

It would appear from this, that Motherwell was entered in the 
High School of Edinburgh as early as the year 1 808 ; but his 
attendance at that excellent institution could' not have exceeded 
a few months, as I find that he was placed early in 1809 at the 
Grammar School of Paisley, then superintended by the late 
Mr, John Peddie. His father had not prospered in Edinburgh, 
and, in consequence of the embarrassed state of his affairs, his 
son William was consigned to the care of his brother, Mr. John 
Motherwell, a respectable ironfounder in Paisley. The curricu- 
lum at the Paisley Grammar School extended over five years, 
and if William Motherwell completed it, he must have enjoyed 
the full measure of elementary classical instruction, including, 
in the fifth year, the rudiments of Greek, which it was then 
customary to give to boys in Scotland. One of his surviving 
school companions * informs me that, in conjunction with the late 
Mr. William Bain, advocate, and a Mr. Lymburn, also deceased, 
he was a dux boy, and there seems to be no reason to doubt, that 
he exhibited the same quickness of apprehension and readiness 
of parts in the Paisley Academy which he had displayed in 
other schools ; but as his tastes were never scholastic, and as 
his knowledge of the dead tongues was always limited, the pre- 
sumption is, that he followed the prominent bias of his mind, 
and devoted to works of imagination the hours that should have 
been given to school exercises. I am fortified in this belief by 
the recollections of Mr. Crawford, who says, " What Motherwell 

I knew her, a very elegant woman in her personal appearance, and 
seemed to have preserved those gentle and agreeable manners for 
which she had been distinguished in girlhood ; but it is proper to 
remark, that she was wholly unconscious of the ardent interest 
which she had excited in the mind of her boyish admirer. 
* Mr. John Crawford, writer in Paisley. 



MEMOIR. XVn 

was most remarkable for, was his gift of spinning long yarns 
about castles, and robbers, and strange, out-of-the-way adventures, 
with which, while Mr. Peddie imagined he was assisting his 
class-fellows with their lessons, he would entertain them for 
hours, day after day, like some of the famous story-tellers in 
the Arabian Nights ; and these stories were retailed at second- 
hand, by his class-fellows, to those who had not the privilege of 
hearing them from the author himself." 

In the year 1811, his mother died at Edinburgh, and after that 
melancholy event, his father, accompanied by his daughter, 
Amelia, retired to the village of Kilsyth, in Stirlingshire, where 
he dwelt till his death, which occurred in February, 1827. 

The history of his ancestors possesses considerable interest. 
In a letter with which I have been favored by my venerable 
and accomplished friend, Mr. Sheriff Campbell of Paisley, they 
are thus spoken of: — 

" Of his family I had occasion to learn something, in the 
course of a judicial inquiry concerning the succession of David 
Motherwell, his uncle, upwards of thirty years ago. That David 
Motherwell died possessed of a small estate on the banks of the 
Carron, in the Barony of Dundaff, in Stirlingshire, which, accord- 
ing to what I found to be the tradition of the neighborhood, 
supported, to a certain extent, by the title deeds of the property, 
which I saw, had been in the possession of thirteen generations of 
the same family, all bearing the same name of David, with the 
surname variously spelled, being at one time Moderville, at an- 
other Moderell, and latterly Motherwell. His uncle, Alexander, 
set aside David's deed of settlement, and sold the property to 
his younger brother, John, an extensive ironmonger in Paisley, 
who left it to trustees for behoof of his daughter." 

The estate here spoken of was called Muirmill, and the name 
2 



XVlll MEMOIR. 

at once indicates the calling of the proprietors. They were the 
hereditary millers of DundafF, and are so designated in a con- 
firmatory charter granted in favor of the then possessor by 
James Graham, the celebrated Marquis of Montrose, in 1G42, 
as will be seen by the following short extract from that docu- 
ment. It is to be observed, that this extract has reference to 
" an instrument of seizin," dated 29th June, 1629, in favor of 
" David Moderell, in Spittal,* and Isabella Small, his wife, pro- 
ceeding on a charter granted by James, Earl of Montrose, Lord 
Graham and Mugdock, of the lands of all and whole, that pen- 
dicle of land called Spittal," &c. The deed of 1624, then, con- 
firms the previous grant of 1629, to 

"William Modrell, miller, at DundafF, callit the Muir Mill, 
,t his spouse, and David Modrell, their son, on the 
other part, (of date at Drum-phad, 25th April, 1629 years,) 
whereby, with consent aforesaid, set in feu farm to the said 
William Modrell, and his spouse above named, and the langest 
liver of them twa, in life-rent ; and to David Modrell, their son, 
all and haill, the said mill, mill lands, and multures, &c., and 
pasturage for eight ky, all lying within the barony of DundafF, 
and shire of Stirling." J 

Upon what conditions the lands in question were held before 
the year 1629, my ignorance of feudal law disables me from 
saying; but it is plain, both from the tradition mentioned by 

* An abbreviation of Hospital, and a common designation of 
small farms in certain parts of Scotland. Lands so called had 
formed portions of the extensive possessions of the military order 
of Knights Hospitallers. 

t Blank in the original. 

t I am indebted for the transcription of this passage to my 
friend Dr. John Smith, the well-known Secretary to the Maitland 
Club. 



MEMOIR. XIX 

Mr. Campbell, and the charters at present in my possession, that 
this family of Motherwells had been settled in that locality, and 
probably oH this very spot, for at least four hundred years, — the 
land and the occupation descending in regular succession from 
father to son. The name itself is obviously a local surname ; 
but it belongs to the county of Lanark, in the middle ward of 
which, and in the parish of Dalziel, there is a considerable vil- 
lage called Motherwell. The statistical accounts speak of a well 
or spring as still existing there, from which the inhabitants are 
supplied with water, and which, in the olden time, was called the 
*' "Well of our Ladye." It was probably believed to possess medi- 
cinal vii'tues, and was, therefore, placed under the immediate pro- 
tection of the "Virgin Mother," — whence the name, Mother- 
well.* Its antiquity as a surname must be considerable, since 
it appears in the Ragman Rolls t for 1296, and also in the index 
to a chartulary of the Monastery of Paisley, in 1490; and, from 
what has been already stated, it will be seen that that branch 
of the race from which the poet sprang had been planted in 
Stirlingshire as far back as the beginning of the fifteenth cen- 
tury. The name, however, is an uncommon one. J 

It having been resolved, I know not why, to devote this way- 
ward and dreamy boy to the legal profession, he was placed, at the 
age of fifteen, in the office of the Sheriff- Clerk of Paisley, where 

* Few towns, where there has, been an ecclesiastical establish- 
ment, such as Glasgow, for instance, want a Ladt Well. 

t The title given to the list of names of those who swore 
fealty to Edward I., which has now something of the character 
and interest of a " Domesday Book." 

X In illustration of the history of the poet's family, it may be 
mentioned, that there is extant a deed of " assignation and dispo- 
sition," by his grandfather, David Motherwell, wherein he be- 



XX MEMOIR. 

he remained for many years ; but, as may be readily conceived, 
the duties of such a situation were but little congenial to his 
tastes. Notwithstanding his dislike to the duties of a writer's 

queathes to each of his " younger sons " (the number is not men- 
tioned) £100 sterling; and to each of his daughters, Elizabeth, 
Janet, and Amelia, 1,000 merks Scots, or about £ 55 sterling. 

Janet married .... Henry Bannerman. 
Elizabeth " .... David Whyte. 
Amelia " .... John Bamet. 

The latter was probably the poet's uncle. The descendants of 
Janet are now eminent merchants in Manchester, and the line of 
Motherwell is represented by the poet's nephew, the son of his 
elder brother David, Mr. Charles McArthur Motherwell, who is a 
purser's clerk in the navy. The name of William Motherwell's 
grandmother was Amelia Monteath, the daughter of an old and 
respectable family settled at Dunblane, in Stirlingshire. A sister 
of his mother's married a Mr. Ogilvie, who left a son, Major 
Ogilvie, now resident in Edinburgh. 

John de Moderwell, chaplain, appears, in a deed of 1460, as one 
of the Procurators of Henry of Livingston, Knight, Commander 
of the Temple of St. John; which Sir Henry was son of William, 
Lord of Kilsyth, and Preceptor of Torphichen. He died in 1463. 
Edward, his elder brother, was the direct ancestor of the Yiscount 
Kilsyth, who was attainted in 1715. There is no evidence of any 
relationship between this ancient priest and the poet's family ; but 
his connection with Kilsyth, where a branch of the Motherwells 
has been planted for many centuries, might justify the suspicion, 
that he was of the same lineage. This mention of him in so old 
a document is satisfactory evidence of the antiquity of the sur- 
name, whatever opinion we may form as to his probable affinity to 
the ancestors of the subject of this memoir. 

Eor these details I am indebted chiefly to the diligence and an- 
tiquarian skill of my late amiable and lamented friend, Mr. Philip 
Eamsay. of Edinburgh, S. S. C, who had collected some materials 
for a life of William Motherwell.- 



MEMOIR. XXI 

clerk, he contrived to turn his new position so far to account by 
bestowing great pains on the deciphering of ancient legal docu- 
ments ; an art in which he latterly excelled. I am indebted to 
Mr. Sheriff Campbell for the following interesting particulars 
concerning Motherwell at this time : — 

'* When I first knew William Motherwell, he was a very little 
boy in the Sheriff-Clerk's office here. I had observed his talent 
for sketching figures of men, in armor and otherwise, and, 
amongst the rest, one of myself, upon a blotter, which I had 
occasion to use when sitting in the Sheriff- Court. I gave him a 
few ancient documents to copy for me, and. in place of an ordi- 
nary transcript, I received from him, with surprise and satisfac- 
tion, Si facsimile so perfect, that, except for the color and texture 
of the paper, it would have been difficult to distinguish it from 
the original manuscript. Finding him a smart and intelligent 
boy, I asked him to give me a statement, in writing, of certain 
occurrences to which he had been a witness, at a period when 
the peace of the district was threatened. This account was not 
confined to facts, but was interspersed with observations and 
reflections of his own, of a nature so unexpected and so curious, 
that I wished to preserve it; but I am sorry that, in a search 
made for it some years ago, I was unable to find it. The notions 
of the boy were then what would now be called extremely liberal. 
In process of time, however, his views changed, and I used to 
joke him upon the ground that his conversion had been beaten 
into him by a party of lads (radicals), with whom he happened 
to get into conflict. On that occasion, he was thrown down and 
trampled upon in the street, and received injuries so severe, that 
his life was thought in imminent danger. This, I believe, was in 
1818 or 1819, during a time of political excitement. He was 
appointed to the office of Sheriff- Clerk Depute, of the county 



XXIV MEMOIR. 

illustrated at the beginning, after the manner of old black-letter 
volumes and illuminated missals, and numerous scraps of paper 
attest his accurate perception of the ludicrous and the horrible, 
by all sorts of queer and grotesque delineations. A few strokes 
of his pen were suflScient for this, and it is impossible not to 
admire the ease which attaches to these figures. His handwrit- 
ing likewise partook of this peculiarity. It was formal and 
square, and, particularly in the capital letters, resembled the 
Chaldee character, constituting, in fact, a variety of painting* 

The winter session of 1818-19 he spent at Glasgow College, 
where he attended the Latin class, under the late Mr. Walker, 
and the Greek class, under the late Mr. Young ; but, as I have 
already stated, he never attained to ordinary proficiency in either 
language, and with the modern tongues he was wholly unac- 
quainted. He manifested at this time a strong desire to repair 
the defects of his early education ; and in a letter to his fi'iend, 
the late Mr. Robert Walkinshaw, in March, 1818, he expresses 
a hope that, should he succed to the office of Sheriflf- Clerk De- 
pute, then held by Mr. Walkinshaw, he might be able " to save 
some little money, sufficient to re-launch his frail skiflf once 
more on the dead sea of the languages." 

As the office of Sheriff"-Clerk Depute brought him a consider- 
able income, he spent the greater part of it in the purchase of 
books, and long before his removal to Glasgow he had collected 

* This seems to have been a very early habit. Mr. Crawford 
speaks of it in these terms : — " He was also remarkable for his 
talent for sketching figures of mailed knights, on foot and mount- 
ed, and all manner of caricatures, which were sketched with great 
life and spirit. The boards of his class-fellows' school-books were 
covered with Motherwell's sketches, and it was considered a great 
favor when he gave them one." 



MEMOIR. XXV 

a large and miscellaneous library. Like most book-fanciers, he 
sometimes sacrificed usefulness to the indulgence of a spirit of 
curiosity ; but in that province of literature to which he was 
chiefly devoted, — poetry and the historical romance, — his 
library was rich. Its chief wants were in the department of 
modern history, and moral and philosophical science, in none 
of which subjects can it be said that he took much pleasure. 
His knowledge of them was, consequently, defective, and this 
was both felt and seen when politics became his profession. 

It may be naturally supposed of the man who at fourteen 
sketched the outline of Jeanie Morrison, that, if he did not 
actually lisp in numbers, the art of versification must have been 
at least an irresistible habit, and that sponte sua carmen numeros 
veniebat ad aptos ; but when he first committed himself publicly 
to the dangers and allurements of rhyme, or where, I have been 
unable satisfactorily to ascertain. In 1818 he contributed some 
little things to a small work published at Greenock, called the 
" Visitor," and for several years afterwards he continued to 
furnish with pieces of original poetry such of his literary friends 
in Paisley and Glasgow as applied to him for assistance. In 
this respect his liberality was exemplary, if not prodigal ; but 
he afterwards collected the best of these fugitive productions, 
and embodied them in that volume upon which his reputation 
as a poet must ultimately rest. In 1819, the Harp of Ren- 
frewshire,* of which he was the editor, appeared at Paisley. 
This work is anonymous ; but it is well known to have been 



* The Harp of Renfrewshire ; a Collection of Songs and 
other Poetical Pieces, many of which are Original ; accompanied 
with Notes, Explanatory, Critical, and Biographical : and a Short 
Essay on the Poets of Renfrewshire. 1 vol. Paisley, 1819. 



XXVI MEMOIR. 

brought out under Motherwell's care, who supplied the intro- 
ductory essay, which was his first attempt at serious criticism. 
In it he gives a rapid sketch of the poets of Renfrewshire, be- 
ginning with Sir Hugh Montgomerie, who died at a very ad- 
vanced age in 1545, and ending with Robert Tannahill, whom 
he could not have known personally, but with whose melancholy 
history he had ample means of becoming acquainted. The notes 
are likewise by him, and are both numerous and valuable ; and 
this little volume, which is now scarce, may be regarded as a 
favorable specimen of his zeal and diligence. Its chief merit, 
however, is, that it was the herald to a work of much larger 
pretensions, and with which his fame is now closely identified, — 
Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern,* which was pubKshed at 
Glasgow in 1827, and which instantly secured for its author an 
honorable place among the commentators on our national poetry. 
The " Historical -Introduction " is elaborate and full, but I must 
leave it to those who have made such subjects as it discusses 
a study to decide upon its merits; it is enough to state here, 
that this work brought him into direct communication with 
some men of high distinction in the world of letters, and, 
amongst others, with Sir Walter Scott. The ancient ballad of 
Gil Morricb seems to have attracted much of Motherwell's 
attention. It was the foundation of Home's celebrated tragedy 
of " Douglas," and the scene of the melancholy adventure which 
it relates was " Carronside," the home of his ancestors. He tells 
us, moreover, that " the green wood " of the ballad was the an- 
cient forest of DundafF, in Stirlingshire, and that "Lord Bar- 

* Minstrelsy •, Ancient and Modern : with an Historical Intro- 
duction, and Notes. By William Motherwell. John Wylie. Glas- 
gow, 1827. 



MEMOIR. XXVll 

nard's castle is said to have occupied a precipitous cliff over- 
hanging the water of Carron, on the lands of Halbertshire." * 
Earlsburn, a favorite name with him, is also a small stream in 
that locality, which falls into the Carron, and derives its appel- 
lation, according to him, from the Earl's son, who is the hero 
of this legendary poem. There is internal evidence in his 
writings to show, that he had carefully inquired into this matter 
while residing with his uncle at Muirmill ; but it was from an 
old woman at Paisley, who sang the verses to him, that he ob- 
tained that copy of the ballad which he considered the true one, 
and which led to his correspondence with Sir Walter. His idea 
was, that Gil should have been written child, and that Mor- 
EiCE was an obvious corruption of Noryce, the old English 
word for foster-child. Willie, the page, is called, in one of the 
versions, (Mr. Jamieson's,) his " foster-brither " ; and Mother- 
well's object would appear to have been, to show that between 
the " child's " messenger and himself there existed a stronger 
bond of union than mere feudalism could create. In this way, it 
is to be presumed, he proposed to account for " Willie's " under- 
taking, though reluctantly, to deliver the message to Lady Bar- 
nard from her son, the ill-fated Gil, of whose relationship to 
that noble person the lad was ignorant. He accordingly wrote 
to Sir Walter Scott upon the subject, as early as April, 1825, 
two years before the Minstrelsy appeared, and received from 
that eminent man the following reply : — 

Abbotsford, 3d May, 1825. 
" Sir, 

"I am honored with your letter, covering the curious 
old version of the ballad of Gil Morrice, which seems, accord- 
ing to your copy, to be a corruption of Child Norrice, or Child 

* Minstrelsy, p. 258. 



XXVIU MEMOIR. 

Nursling, as we would say. As I presume the ballad to be 
genuine, and, indeed, see jio reason to suspect the contrary, 
the style being simple and ancient, I think you should print 
it exactly as you have taken it down, and with a refer- 
ence to the person by whom it is preserved so special as to 
enable any one to ascertain its authenticity who may think it 
worth while. I have asked, at different times, the late Mr. John 
Home, concerning the ballad on which he was supposed to have 
founded 'Douglas,' but his memory was too imperfect, when I 
knew him, to admit of his giving me any information. I have 
heard my mother, who was fond of the ballad, say, that when 
Douglas was in its height of popularity, Gil Morrice was, 
to a certain extent, rewritten, which renovated copy, of course, 
includes all the new stanzas about ' Minerva's loom,' and so 
forth. Yet there are so many fine old verses in the common 
set, that I cannot agree to have them mixed up even with your 
set, though more ancient, but would like to see them kept quite 
separate, like different sets of the same melody. In fact, I think 
I did wrong myself, in endeavoring to make the best possible 
set of an ancient ballad out of several copies obtained from 
different quarters, and that, in many respects, if I improved the 
poetry, I spoiled the simplicity of the old song. There is no 
wonder this should be the case, when one considers that the 
singers or reciters by whom these ballads were preserved and 
handed down must, in general, have had a facility, from mem- 
ory at least, if not from genius, (which they might often pos- 
sess,) of filling up verses which they had forgotten, or altering 
such as they, might think they could improve. Passing through 
this process in different parts of the country, the ballads, ad- 
mitting that they had one common poetical original, (which is 
not to be inferred merely from the similitude of the story,) be- 



MEMOIR. XXIX 

came, in progress of time, totally different productions, so far 
as the tone and spirit of each is concerned. In such cases, per- 
haps, it is as well to keep them separate, as giving in their orig^ 
inal state a more accurate idea of our ancient poetry, which 
is the point most important in such collections. There is room 
for a very curious essay on the relation which the popular poetry 
of the North of Europe bears to that of the South, and even to 
that of Asia ; and the varieties of some of our ballads might 
be accounted for by showing that one edition had been derived 
from the French or Nonnan, another from the Danish, and so 
on, so that, though the substance of the dish be the same, the 
cookery is that of foreign and distant cuisiniers. This reason- 
ing certainly does not apply to mere brief alterations and cor- 
ruptions, which do not, as it were, change the tone and form of 
the original. 

" You will observe that I have no information to give repect- 
ing Gil Morrice, so I might as well, perhaps, have saved you 
the trouble of this long letter. 

"I am, Sir, 

" Your obliged, humble servt., 

" Walter Scott." 

Sir Walter and Motherwell never met, but after the death of 
that great man he performed a pilgrimage to Abbotsford ; and, as 
I am informed, was wont to say that " nothing in that splendid 
mansion had affected him so much as Sir Walter's staff, with the 
bit dibble at the end of it."* Of course, in the forthcoming edi- 
tion of the Minstrelsy, he followed the advice of the illustrious 
critic, and kept his own copy of the ballad distinct from the others, 
and so it stands in the volume. 

* Notes by Mr. Charles Hutchison. 



XXX MEMOIR. 

In 1828 the Paisley Magazine was begun by Motherwell, 
and carried on by him, with the assistance of his friends, for a 
year. It is, undoubtedly, what Mr. Campbell represents it, — a 
respectable provincial work ; and in it, for the first time, appeared 
some of the poet's best pieces, such as The Sword Chant of 
Thorstein Raudi, — Midnight and Moonshine, — The Water ! the 
Water ! — The Wooing Song of Jarl Egill Skallgrim, — and 
Wearie's Well. His position, however, had now changed, and it 
will be necessary to explain how this was brought about. 

In the year 1826 a newspaper was begun in Paisley, called the 
Paisley Advertiser. Its politics were Conservative and Ministerial, 
and its first editor was a Mr. John Goldie, who had been formerly 
connected with an Ayr journal. He died suddenly within a year, 
and was succeeded in his office by Mr. William Kennedy, an Irish 
gentleman of distinguished poetical abilities, and the author of the 
pretty poem called "The Arrow and the Rose"; and also 
of a little volume of poems entitled " Fitful Fancies." 

Between Mr. Kennedy and Motherwell there sprang up a strong 
friendship. They were both addicted to literature and poetry; 
they thought alike on matters political, and were nearly of an age. 
It is not surprising, therefore* that Motherwell should have become 
a contributor and a proprietor, and still less so that, on the retire- 
ment of Mr. Kennedy, in 1828, he should have succeeded him as 
editor of that paper. What success he may have had in his new ca- 
pacity I know not ; but on the retirement of Mr. James M' Queen 
from the management of the Glasgow Courier, in 1830, Mr. Moth- 
erwell was invited by the proprietors of that journal to take his 
place ; and all things being satisfactorily arranged, he left Paisley 
and took up his abode in Glasgow in the beginning of that year. 
The first number of the Courier which appeared after his accession 
to the office of editor has the date of 2d February, 1830 ; and he 



MEMOIR. XXXI 

continued in connection with that paper till his death in Novem- 
ber, 1835. 

Whether journalism was exactly the vocation that was best 
suited to a man of his tastes and peculiar acquirements, I shall not 
take upon me to determine; but there can be no doubt that he 
entered upon his new duties at Glasgow at a time of great diffi- 
culty and considerable public danger. The political world was at 
that moment upheaved from its foundations, and the revolution in 
France, consequent upon the three glorious days of July, followed 
as that event was by the accession of Lord Grey's Administration, 
and the Eeform Bill excitement, presented to a lover of the olden 
ways a mass of embarrassment, which we may admit to have been 
unsurmountable. Whatever Motherwell's views may have been in 
boyhood, they were now fixed. He saw pne after another of his 
most cherished prejudices first derided, and then destroyed. 
Change followed change with the rapidity of lightning, and, in 
the midst of this universal whirlwind, the only man in this im- 
mense community who was expected to keep himself free from the 
common contagion, and to observe the most philosophical absti- 
nence in the discussion of passing events, was the Tory editor of 
the Tory newspaper ! Mere humanity is not equal to so great a 
trial as this, and Motherwell was not the man to affect to undergo 
it. He entered into the strife with all his soul ; and whatever dif- 
ference of opinion may have formerly prevailed as to his style of 
defence, it will not be denied by his bitterest political enemies, (for 
I would persuade myself that, personally, he had and could have 
none,) that he conducted his case for many years, against frightful 
odds, with exemplary zeal, courage, and fidelity. It would be easy, 
no doubt, to select from his writings at that time passages which 
might appear objectionable ; but the same remark would apply 
equally to his opponents ; and those only who have had some ex- 



XXXn MEMOIR. 

perience of a controversial life, and of the perplexities which be- 
set a writer for the public press in a provincial town, can- form an 
adequate conception of the difficulties with which Motherwell was 
at that juncture surrounded. The public mind is now compara- 
tively cool ; it was then at a boiling heat, and in the fierce contest 
of parties passions were evoked Avhich overmastered reason, and 
laid judgment prostrate in the dust. That in such a tumult he, a 
man of warm and impetuous temperament, should have stood erect 
and looked down with complacent indifference on the scene below 
was impossible; nor did he make the attempt. He defended his^ 
principles from the assaults daily and hourly made upon them, 
and it was his duty to do so ; but if in the execution of that duty 
he transgressed the established laws of political warfare, or out- 
raged any of the conventional courtesies of life, then he was 
blamable. I do not say that this was the case, because I do not 
think so ; not that I would be understood as approving of all that 
he wrote in these times, but that, considering the circumstances in 
which he was placed, his abstinence from a certain measure of ve- 
hemence would have argued a neutrality of feeling on the great 
questions of the day, which would have literally disqualified him 
for the office that he held. Let us be just to the dead, then, and 
grant that what was well was due to the man, and that what was 
amiss was chargeable upon the infirmity of our common nature. 

In his editorial capacity Motherwell occasionally drew upon his 
poetical faculty, and in general successfully, as the following jeu 
d" esprit will show. It appeared early in 1833, when the Reform 
Bill was supposed to be in danger, and when its friends in Glas- 
gow exhibited an unusual degree of anxiety respecting it. T — m 
A— k — n is the late Mr. Thomas Aitkinson, bookseller, who was 
a very keen, liberal politician. MP — n was his neighbor Mr. 
M'Phun, likewise a bookseller, and agent for the Sun newspaper. 



MEMOIR. XXXlll 

Sir D. K. S — f— d is the late Sir D. K. Sandford, the accom- 
plished Professor of Greek in the University of Glasgow, who was 
at that time an ardent reformer, and whose premature and much- 
lamented death was probably accelerated by the excitement of 
that miserable period. "With these explanations this clever trifle 
will be intelligible : — 

THE REFORMER'S GARLAND. 

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG. 

Tune, — ''Young Lockinvar.''^ 

T — m A — k— n mounted his bei-ry brown steed, 
Through all the "West Country unequalled for speed ; 
And, save an odd threepence to pay for the toll, 
He carried no weight but a placard in scroll. 
So lightly and jaunty he eastward did hie, 
"With the Bill in his heart and the Mail in his eye ; — 
He swore that, for once, he would e-clipse the Sun,* 
And darken the shine of his neighbor, M'P — n. 

Carnal chie folk stared, and Tallcross stood abeigh. 

So rapid he rode, and the steed was so skeigh ; 

But Tom did not value his horsemanlike skill j 

His thoughts were " Reform," and " naught but the Bill." 

Yea, even in passing the scene at Carmyle, t 

The "Whig field of honor seemed woi-thless the while ; — 

For still he expected to e-clipse the Sun, 

And darken the shine of his neighbor, M'P — n. 

Then onward he sped, till he came to a turn 

Of the road, when the Guard of the Mail cried, "Adjourn ! " 

* This is an allusion to the Sun, London newspaper, at that time 
forwarded by special express to Glasgow. 

t The scene of a recent duel, with the distance marked otit by 
two bricks. 

3 



XXXIV MEMOIR. 

And about ship went Tom, and the spur did apply, 
And the Stationer, truly, for once seemed to Jiy. 
His Tontine constituents soon did he hail, 
For near eighteen minutes he distanced the Mail ; 
The " Adjourn " was repeated, e-clipsed was the Sun, 
The shine was o'erclouded of neighbor M'P— n. 

Sir D. K. S — f — d next mounted his beast, 

With its tail to the west and its head to the east, 

And on like a War Knight the brute he did urge, 

To nose the eflfect of the famed " Russell Purge " ; 

But at Bothwell the Mail Guard roared out, " Lost by eight ! " 

When about went the prad, as it had taken fright; 

Sir Dan he stuck on, and again 'clipsed the Sun, 

To the utter confounding of neighbor M'P— n. 

That Motherwell's prospects were improved by a removal to 
Glasgow may be admitted, since that city, from its greater size, 
would necessarily afford a wider field for the display of his abili- 
ties ; but I have many doubts whether the change was friendly to 
the development and cultivation of his poetical faculty. The 
charge of a three-times-a-week paper leaves little leisure for the 
prosecution of a formal course of study, while the distracting anx- 
ieties which are inseparable from political warfare are altogether 
incompatible with that repose of mind which is essential to the 
achieveijient of distinction in any walk of literature. It is my im- 
pression, therefore, that his Muse was comparatively idle in Glas- 
gow, and that his attention was directed to the improvement of old, 
rather than to the composition of new poems. This idea is par- 
tially confirmed by an inspection of two quarto volumes of manu- 
script pieces which he left behind him, the one of which is nearly 
a transcript of the other, and was obviously executed at Glasgow ; 
and it is farther strengthened by the fact, tljat he published little, 
after he came to this city, which had not been written long before. 



MEMOIR. XXXV 

It would be idle to talk of the genius loci in such circumstances, 
for the character of that mysterious lady must be much the same 
in both places, and is not particularly spiritual in either; but there 
may be something in the disruption of old and established ties, 
something in the absence of familiar faces and well-known voices, 
and something in the destruction of those secret and inexplicable 
material sympathies, which make one spot of earth more than an- 
other the home of a man's soul. Whether any or all of these in- 
fluences may have affected him, I shall not take upon me posi- 
tively to affirm ; but I think myself so far justified in the conclu- 
sion at which I have arrived by the subsequent steps of his his- 
tory, which indicate a sluggish action, if not an absolute torpor of 
his creative energies. 

In 1832 a publication was started in Glasgow, under the direc- 
tion of Mr. John Strang, the author of two interesting volumes of 
Travels in Germany, called The Day, to which Motherwell con- 
tributed largely. In that periodical there appeared for the first 
time the following poetical pieces from his pen : — The Sere- 
nade, — The Solemn Song of a Kighteous Hearte, — Elfinland 
Wud, — The Covenanters' Battle-Chant, — Caveat to the TTind, — 
What is Glory 1 What is Fame 1 — A Solemn Conceit, — The 
Parting, — The Ettin Lang o' Sillerwood, — and, Spirits of Light ! 
Spirits of Shade ! — all of which, with the exception of the last 
two, he afterwards embodied in his volume.* He also communi- 

* It is needless to add, that these were gratuitous contributions, 
and that their author neither expected nor received any thing for 
them. It was in this year that Jeanie Morrison appeared in an 
Edinburgh magazine, and for that exquisite lyrical composition 
he was paid — thirty shillings ! George Buchanan was not far 
wrong when he exclaimed, three hundred years ago, 

" Denique quicquid agis. comes assidet improba egestas 
Sive poema canis, sive poema doces." 



XXXVl MEMOIR. 

cated to that work a series of humorous papers in prose, entitled, 
"Memoirs of a Paisley Bailie," which afforded considerable 
amusement at the time ; and towards the end of this year he col- 
lected his scattered poetical fragments, and formed them into a 
small volume, with the title of " Poems, Narrative and Lyri- 
cal," which he dedicated to his friend Kennedy. Most of these 
pieces, if not the whole of them, were reprints. I am not quite 
sure about the Battle-Flag of Sigurd, but I rather think it ap- 
peared originally in the pages of the Paisley Advertiser. 

This volume was, upon the whole, well received. There could 
be no doubt about the high quality of the poetry which an un- 
known author had ventured thus to submit to the world, but its 
character was peculiai-, and for the most part not fitted for exten- 
sive popularity ; and the season which was chosen for its introduc- 
tion was eminently unfavorable to its chances of immediate suc- 
cess. No adventitious murmurs of applause had announced its 
approach, and at a time when little was heard but the noise of po- 
litical contention, it was perhaps too much to expect that a com- 
paratively obscure bard should draw towards himself a large share 
of the public notice, let his abilities be what they might. This 
work, however, gave Motherwell, what it had been the object of 
his life to attain, a place among the poets of Britain ; and it car- 
ried his name into quarters which it never would have otherwise 
reached. A commendatory criticism in Blackwood's Magazine 
for April, 1833, proclaimed his pretensions wherever the English 
language is read ; and though his nature was too modest and too 
manly for the display of any open exultation at the triumph 
which he had so honorably won, he never ceased to feel the deep- 
est gratitude to the distinguished reviewer, whom he knew to be a 
consummate judge of poetical merit, and for whose genius and 
character he always felt and expressed the warmest admiration. 



MEMOIR. XXXVll 

. The last work in which Motherwell engaged, and which he did 
not live to complete, was a joint edition of Burns's works by him 
and James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd.* His share in this pro- 
duction consisted merely of occasional notes, critical and explana- 
tory, which are marked with the letter M., and in which he exhib- 
its much knowledge of the contemporary history of Bums's pe- 
riod, and his usual discrimination as a commentator. The fifth 
and last volume contains the Life of the Ayrshire Poet, by Hogg ; 
but before it appeared, his comparatively youthful coadjutor was 
no more.t 

In August, 1835, Motherwell was summoned to London, to ap- 
pear before a committee of the House of Commons, which had 
been appointed to take evidence as to the constitution and prac- 
tices of the Orange Society, with a view to its suppression. He 
had unluckily allowed himself to be enrolled as a member of that 
association, and was one of- the district secretaries for the West of 
Scotland. There is no incident in his history which it more per- 
plexes me to account for than this. He had no connection with 
Ireland, direct or indirect, nor had he ever been in that island in 
his life, and few men, in my opinion, were less qualified by pre- 
vious habits of study to appreciate the value of the mixed questions 

* The "Works of Robert Burns, edited by the Ettrick Shepherd 
and William Motherwell, Esq. 5 vols. Glasgow: Archd. Ful- 
lerton & Co. 1836. 

t It should have been mentioned in its proper place, that in the 
year 1832 Motherwell supplied a preface of some length to Hen- 
derson's volume of Scottish Proverbs. Andrew Henderson was a 
portrait painter of considerable celebrity in Glasgow, and an inti- 
mate friend of the Poet. He was a man of abrupt manners, but 
of great honesty of nature, and capable of both steadfast and 
warm attachments. He pre-deceased Motherwell by about six 
months. 



XXXVlll MEMOIR. 

of civil and ecclesiastical polity which that hody professed to dis- 
cuss ; yet he entered with characteristic warmth into its schemes, 
and became one of the agents employed in the extension of its 
principles. To his mind, Orangeism would seem to have pre- 
sented itself under the guise of a wholesome influence of general 
applicability, which it was desirable to perpetuate, instead of be- 
ing, what it really was, a particular form of one of those numerous 
factions into which Irish society is divided. It would not appear 
to have occurred to him, that whatever the merits, real or imagi- 
nary, of the Orange confederacy might be, its introduction into 
Scotland could be attended with no benefits whatever ; and that if 
it was destined ever to achieve advantages of a permanent kind, it 
was only on the soil which had generated and nourished it that 
this could happen. As an antagonist to Popery and Jacobitism, 
it was certainly not wanted in Presbyterian Scotland ; and a little 
reflection might have satisfied him, that the civil and religious 
rights of the people of this country were not to be upheld through 
the instrumentality of an Hibernian political fraternity, which had 
outlived the necessity that gave it birth, and which was now re- 
spectable only from the historical associations connected with its 
origin, and the recollection of the services which it had formerly 
rendered to the cause of constitutional government in Ireland. 
His adhesion to this body was, therefore, a decided error in judg- 
ment, while it was attended with this additional inconvenience, 
that it gave rise to the suspicion that the party, whose public rep- 
resentative he was, had become favorable to a system of political 
pi'opagandism, and was not unwilling to patronize, in an under- 
hand way, that which its general creed repudiated. Legitimate 
and open combination, it did not, because it could not, reject ; but 
it professed to hold secret societies in abhorrence ; and though the 
Orange body might not in strictness of speech deserve to be so 



MEMOIR. XXXIX 

called, it had too many of the characteristics of a sectarian club to 
be agreeable to sober-minded Scotchmen. This act, however, was 
purely personal, and was confined to Motherwell and one or two 
of his more intimate friends ; and I distinctly remember, that there 
was no subject upon which he was more reserved, and none upon 
which he bore a little raillery with less equanimity, than upon his 
alliance with Irish Orangeism. By this time, however, the evil 
spirit of political acerbity had displaced the gentler impulses of his 
nature, and William Motherwell had exchanged the catholicity of 
poetry for the fanaticism of social exclusiveness ! * 

Motherwell remained in London for about a week, and there 
can be no doubt that he exhibited great mental infirmity before 
the committee, — in common speech, he " broke down." That 
this did not result from any want of courage on his part, will be 
at once admitted by those who knew the man ; but it is proper to 
observe, that in such circumstances he was constitutionally " un- 
ready " and slow of utterance. He not only required time to ar- 
range his ideas and to consolidate his thoughts, on the most ordi- 
nary occasions, but he was habitually slow, and even confused, in 
the expression of them. No ordeal could, therefore, be more em- 
barrassing to him than a formal examination before a body of 
sharp-witted men, whose pleasure it not infrequently is to lay 
snares for an inexperienced witness : but besides this, I am con- 
vinced that on this particular point Motherwell was at fault as to 
knowledge, — that he had never seriously inquired of himself Avhat 
Orangeism was, or what object was to be gained by its propaga- 
tion, — and that, consequently, he must have failed when rigor- 

* That this incident was hurtful to his health was the general 
impression of his friends. Mr. Hutchison, who saw him fre- 
quently before he set out for London, says " that he was greatly 
depressed." 



Xl MEMOIR. 

ously interrogated by an intelligent and authoritative tribunal 
about these matters. Let me farther add, in explanation of this 
melancholy occurrence, that it has been long my fixed impression 
that he was laboring under the effects of the approaches of that 
insidious disease (softening of the brain), which destroyed him a 
few months afteinvards ; and those who remember the circum- 
stances attendant upon his visit to the Metropolis, and the strange 
fancies which haunted him while there, will probably have little 
hesitation in accepting this apology for what we may now call an 
involuntary weakness. The indications of this mental debility did 
not escape the observation of the gentlemen composing the com- 
mittee ; and Mr. Wallace, of Kelly, at that time member for Gree- 
nock, with a kindness which was the more honorable to him that 
Motherwell had frequently spoken of him in his editorial capacity 
with considerable severity, paid him marked attention ; and, per- 
ceiving how matters really stood, lost no time in getting his bewil- 
dered countryman shipped off to Scotland. 

On his return he resumed his old habits of life, and was, to all 
outward appearance, in perfect health. On Saturday, the 31st day 
of October, 1835, he dined and spent the evening at the house of a 
gentleman in the suburbs of Glasgow. There was dancing, and it 
was observed that he bled freely at the nose, which was attributed 
to the heated state of the apartments. On going into the open air 
for a short time, the bleeding stopped, and at half past ten he left 
his friend's house in the company of the late Mr. Robert M'Nish 
(better known as the Modern Pythagorean), and the late Mr. 
Philip Ramsay, and from these gentlemen he parted about eleven 
o'clock. At four o'clock on the morning of the 1st of November 
he was suddenly struck while in bed with a violent shock of apo- 
plexy, which almost instantly deprived him of consciousness. He 
had simply time to exclaim, " My head ! My head ! " when he fell 



MEMOIR. 



xli 



back on the pillow, and never spoke more. I saw him in my 
professional capacity about half past six, having been sent for 
by the medical man who was first called in, but the case was 
then hopeless, and had been obviously so from the first ; know- 
ing, however, that a deep interest was felt in his fate, and anx- 
ious that he should have the benefit of the advice of a senior 
practitioner, I sent for my late friend. Dr. William Young, but 
before he arrived he was dead. He expired quietly, and with- 
out suffering, at eight o'clock, thus closing a life of incessant 
labor, and of some anxiety, not unmixed with enjoyment, at the 
early age of thirty-seven. 

He was buried in the Necropolis, a new cemetery, situated 
over against the Cathedral, on Thursday, the 5th of November ; 
and his remains were followed to the grave by a large assem- 
blage of friends, of all shades of political opinion ; nor were 
the compositors and pressmen of the Courier office, headed by 
their foreman, the late Mr. Andrew Tough, the least interesting 
part of that procession. The body was borne to the ground on 
men's shoulders, and the pall-bearers were, — head, Mr. C. A. 
Motherwell, his nephew ; foot, Mr. — now Sir James — Camp- 
bell ; sides, Mr. Whyte, Mr. M'Laren, Mr. M' Arthur, Mr. Philip 
Ramsay, Captain Andrew Hamilton, Sheriff" Campbell.* 

* It is painful to be obliged to state, that Motherwell's grave 
cannot be discovered without the assistance of a guide, not being 
marked by even a headstone and the initials W. M. This is not 
as it should be ; and I am sure that it is only necessary to call the 
attention of his surviving friends to a circumstance so little cred- 
itable to all of us, to have this reproach immediately removed. 
The grave is situated at the northeastern corner of the burying- 
ground, and at the bend of the road which leads up the hill, to the 
right hand. It is a little triangular space, covered with weeds, ly- 
ing between the tombs of Mr. William Sloan, on the right, and 
Mr. Alexander Patrick, on the left. 



Xlii MEMOIR. 

Motherwell's death was deeply regretted by the citizens of 
Glasgow, generally, and with unaffected sorrow by his more im- 
mediate relatives, friends, and associates. Its suddenness invested 
it with a melancholy interest ; and in the presence of that dread 
messenger whose approach no eye can detect, and whose stern 
impartiality makes no distinction of age, sex, or condition, it 
was felt that the tempest of political warfare should be stilled, 
and that those hollow differences, which so often separate kin- 
dred spirits in life, should be buried in that grave which now 
contained the mortal remains of a man of genius and of worth. 
The records of his demise, which appeared in the different news- 
papers, were creditable to their conductors, and indicated an 
anxious desire to do honor to his merits ; and I have sincere 
pleasure in reproducing, after the lapse of eleven years, the 
handsome testimony which was at that time borne to his char- 
acter by his public opponent, but private friend, Mr. William 
Weir, then editor of the Glasgow Argus: — 

" This accomplished gentleman died suddenly on Sunday 
morning. Mr. Motherwell's antiquarian knowledge was exten- 
sive ; and, as the bent of his mind towards the past tinged his 
poetry, so his imagination lent grace and vitality to his knowl- 
edge. A small volume of lyrical poems, published some years 
back by Mr. Motherwell, is full of tender and unobtrusive beauty. 
There are few pieces more touching, in the whole range of Scot- 
tish poetry, than his ' Jeanie Morrison.' A series of papers pub- 
lished in The Day, entitled 'Memoirs of a Paisley Bailie,' are 
full of grave, quiet, exquisite humor. In addition to these, 
we have had occasion to see fragments of a prose work of some 
extent, which Mr. Motherwell had, we believe, almost completed 
for the press. It is an embodiment of the old wild legends of 
the Norsemen, (always a favorite theme with the author,) and 



MEMOIR. xliii 

contains passages of surpassing splendor, animated by a way- 
ward spirit, half merriment, half pathos. Mr. Motherwell was 
also engaged in making collections for a life of Tannahili, — 
a work much wanted, and which, since we have lost him, we 
know of no other man alive able to supply. Mr Motherwell is 
a loss in his own peculiar circle of literature. He will be missed 
by his antiquarian and poetical associates. But he will be more 
deeply and lastingly missed in the circle of his personal friends, 
and of the already too much narrowed circle of his family. This 
hurrffed and inadequate tribute is paid to him by one who, de- 
cidedly opposed to him on public grounds, and placed in imme- 
diate collision with him, was yet proud to call him his friend, 
and laments his loss." 

In personal appearance' Motherwell was under-sized, not ex- 
ceeding, I should think, five feet five, or thereby, in height ; but 
he was vigorously and well formed, and possessed great muscu- 
lar strength. His bust was that of a large, manly figure, the 
deficiency in his stature being, as generally happens in such 
cases, in his limbs, which, though gracefully turned, were short. 
His head was large, and his brow ample. His eyes, which were 
small and deeply set, were surmounted by bushy eyebrows. His 
face was square, with prominent cheek-bones, and his nose 
wanting in symmetry. His mouth was, perhaps, the most un- 
exceptionable feature of his countenance, and indicated great 
firmness, as well as benevolence of character. His hair was 
of a dark brown color, and, besides being abundant in quan- 
tity, inclined to curl. In his dress, he was neat and plain, and 
scrupulously clean. The vignette affixed to this volume is an 
excellent likeness, and is fitted to convey a faithful impression 
of his general appearance. 

In his manners he was modest and unpretending, and in 



Xliv MEMOIR. 

general society he spoke but little. His conversational powers, 
in fact, were not high ; but in the company of his more inti- 
mate friends he was free and unreserved, and entered with a 
keen relish into the amusements of the hour. When excited, 
as he was apt occasionally to be when the conversation turned 
upon any subject in which he took an interest, he displayed much 
enthusiasm, and threw into his action considerable energy; but 
this seldom happened, and only in moments of total relax- 
ation from all restraint. He was decidedly social in his tastes, 
and had nothing of the anchorite about him ; and at one period 
of his life he was addicted to practical joking. Some of his 
exploits in this way were amusing enough ; but the habit was 
ultimately abandoned, as it threatened to lead to disagreeable 
consequences, and was improper in itself. He was fond of manly 
exercises, such as boxing, in which he took lessons from a 
Negro pugilist, and sword-playing, in the niceties of which he 
was instructed by that eminent master of fence, M. Foucart. 
He was also a passionate admirer of the military art ; and there 
can be no doubt that, had circumstances admitted of his exhibit- 
ing his military virtues, he would have made a good soldier. 
In 1820 he served in the Paisley Rifle corps, as sergeant, and 
latterly, as a trooper, in the regiment of Renfrewshire Yeomanry 
Cavalry, which was commanded by the late Sir Michael Shaw 
Stewart. He was fond of this kind of life, and was punctual 
in his attendance upon the Yeomanry balls which were given in 
the county. It would seem, likewise, that he was a good rower, 
but I do not think that the ocean had many attractions for him. 
In his relations as brother and friend his conduct was irre- 
proachable. I have known few equally disinterested men, and 
none more upright or honorable in their dealings with others. 
He could not but be aware that he possessed great and peculiar 



MEMOIR. Xlv 

powers ; but he never betrayed any consciousness of this, and 
was utterly free from literary vanity. Of jealousy, that abiding 
reproach \o men of letters, he had not one particle ; nor do I 
remember ever to have heard him utter a harsh sentence respect- 
ing any human being. His political antipathies were strong, 
but his personal animosities were weak ; not that he had not 
his likings and dislikings, like other men, but that his nature was 
too generous to adopt, and still more to cherish, unkindly feel- 
ings towards any one. No better proof of this quality could be 
given than this, that many of his most intimate and best loved 
friends were his political antagonists, and that his premature death 
was regretted by none more sincerely than by those gentlemen, 
who knew him well and esteemed him highly. Of this fine trait 
of character, the following letter affords a pleasing illustration. 
Mr. Carrick, in whose behalf it was written, was a meritorious 
but unsuccessful literary man,* who was an applicant for the 
office of editor to a Kilmarnock journal ; and it will be seen 
from it that Motherwell, though decidedly opposed to him in 
politics, exerted himself strenuously in his favor. 

" Courier Office, Glasgow, 
" November 28, 1833. 
*' To Mr. David Eobertson : — 

"Mt dear Sir, — Understanding that a newspaper is about 
to be established in Kilmarnock, and that my friend, Mr. J. D. 
Carrick (present editor of the Perth Advertiser), has offered 
himself as a candidate for its editorship, I wish you would in- 
terest yourself on his behalf among those who may have the 
appointment in their hands. 

* Author of the Life of Sir William Wallace, which was writ- 
ten for Constable's Miscellany, in 1825. 



Xlvi MEMOIR. 

" Unfortunately, I neither know the proprietors of the pro- 
jected journal, nor any person of influence in Kilmarnock, hav- 
ing a likelihood of being connected with it, otherwise I should 
have preferred addressing them personally on this subject, in 
place of through you. Be this as it may, I would fain trust 
that my disinterested and unsolicited opinion of the talents and 
literary attainments of Mr. Carrick, in whatever shape, laid be- 
fore the proprietors, may be of some use to a most deserving 
individual in his canvass. 

" With Mr. Carrick and with his writings, both as a literary 
character, and as the conductor of a very intelligent weekly 
paper, I have been long familiar ; and to the taste, tact, judg- 
ment, knowledge, and research displayed in these writings, I 
can bear the most unqualified testimony. Mr. Carrick and I, 
as you well know, have the misfortune to be opposed to each 
other in political sentiments ; but that circumstance detracts 
nothing from his merits in my eyes. Perhaps, in the present 
case, it may even advance his interest ; for I am given to under- 
stand, that the Kilmarnock paper is to be conducted on what 
are called Liberal or Reform principles, and to these, in their 
popular acceptation, I have never, either in my public or private 
capacity, concealed my most rooted hostility. If I am well in- 
formed, then, as to the political views entertained by the pro- 
prietors of the contemplated journal, my decided conviction is, 
that they never could light upon a more energetic and uncom- 
promising, and, at the same time, prudent, sagacious, and en- 
lightened advocate of their principles, than they will find in the 
person of Mr. Carrick. 

" In the management of a paper he has had large experience ; 
his taste in selection is excellent ; and in getting up some of 
those witty and good-humored paragraphs, which conduce so 



MEMOIR. Xlvii 

much to the interest of the columns of a provincial paper, and, 
in consequence, extend its circulation, I scarcely know his equal. 
M}' friend, Macdiarmid, of the Dumfries Courier^ has, in his own 
peculiar walk, a formidable rival in Mr. Carrick. As to his 
eminent qualifications in a higher point of view, his historical 
works and political essays afford the best of all evidence ; but 
as these, in all probability, will be submitted to the committee 
intrusted Avith the nomination of editor, I need not further en- 
large on them, for sure I am, that the committee will think with 
me, that they every way support Mr. Carrick's claims to ex- 
tensive literary and political acquirements, and furnish the best 
of all guaranties for the creditable discharge of his duties as an 
editor. 

" My dear Sir, in conclusion, I have only again to beg, that 
you will use your best influence to back the feeble and inade- 
quate testimony I have borne to the abilities of a common friend, 
— of one who, in every relation of life, has always shown him- 
self a most estimable character. 

" Yours faithfully, 

"W. Motherwell." 

It would be easy to multiply instances of this kind, were I 
not afraid of trespassing upon the indulgence of the reader, for 
his correspondence abounds in them ; but I cannot pass over in 
silence his intimacy with R. A. Smith, a man to whom he Avas 
sincerely attached, and with whom, till death, he cultiv^ed a 
friendship which was unbroken by even a passing cloud. 

Smith was born at Reading, in Berkshire, in 1779. His father 
WRS a native of West Calder, in Lanarkshire, and his mother an 
Englishwoman of respectable connections. In the year 1773, his 
father emigrated to England, in consequence of the dulness of 



Xlviii MEMOIR. 

the silk- weaving trade, but returned to Paisley in 1800, after an 
absence of seventeen years, bringing with him his son, whom 
he intended to educate to the loom. This, however, was found 
to be impossible. Nature had furnished the lad with the most 
delicate musical sensibilities, and, after an ineffectual struggle 
with the ruling passion, music became the business of his life. 
He attained to considerable provincial distinction, and composed 
original music for the following songs of the poet Tannahill, 
whose intimate friend he was: — Jessie, the Flower o' Dum- 
blane, — The Lass of Arranteenie, — The Harper of Mull, — 
Langsyne beside the Woodland Burn, — Our Bonnie Scots Lads, 
— Despairing Mary, — Wi' waefu' heart and sorrowin' ee, — The 
Maniac's Song, — Poor Tom's Farewell, — The Soldier's Wid- 
ow, — and. We '11 meet beside the Dusky Glen. 

la 1823 he removed to Edinburgh, at the solicitation of the 
late Rev. Dr. Andrew Thomson, where he led the choir of St. 
George's Church, of which Dr. Thomson was the incumbent, 
and where he died, in January, 1829. Between him and Mother- 
well there existed a warm friendship, arising, no doubt, from 
a congeniality of tastes on many points ; but, on the part of the 
latter, strengthened by a sincere respect for the virtues as well 
as the genius of the man. Smith had to contend through life, 
not only with narrow means and domestic discomfort, but against 
the pressure of a constitutional melancholy, which occasionally 
impaired the vigor of his fine faculties. His real griefs — of 
which he had a full share — were, therefore, increased by some 
that were imaginary; and he was obviously accustomed, not 
only to lean upon the stronger mind of his friend, in his mo- 
ments of depression, but to seek for sympathy in his distress, 
which, it is needless to add, was never refused. In November, 
1826, Smith thus writes to him: — 



MEMOIR. Xlix 

** I would have written you long ere this, but have been pre- 
vented by an amount of domestic distress sufficient to drive all 
romance out of my mind ; and you must be aware that with- 
out a considerable portion of that delightful commodity no 
good music can be engendered. To be serious, my dear friend, 
two of my family, my eldest daughter and youngest son, are 
at this moment lying dangerously ill of the typhus fever. I 
hope that I may escape the contagion, but I have sometimes 
rather melancholy forebodings ; and in the midst of all this 
I am obliged to sing professionally every day, and mask my 
face with smiles, to cover the throbbings of a seared and lonely 
heart." 

To this sad effusion, Motherwell returned the following char- 
acteristic reply : — 

" Your domestic afflictions deeply grieve me. I trust by this 
time, however, that your children have mended, and that you 
are no sufferer by their malady. Kennedy and I have been 
shedding tears over your calamities, and praying to Heaven that 
you may have strength of spirits to bear up under such severe 
dispensations. We both, albeit we have no family afflictions to 
mourn over, have yet much to irritate and vex us, — much, much 
indeed, to sour the temper and sadden the countenance ; but 
these things must be borne with patiently. It is folly of the 

worst description, to let thought kill us before our time 

I hope to hear from you soon, and to learn that you are in 
better spirits, and that the causes which have depressed them 
are happily removed. Kennedy joins me in warm and sincere 
prayers that this may speedily be the case." 

Motherwell was decidedly superstitious ; that is, he had an 
absolute and unqualified belief in the reality of those spectral 
illusions, which, under whatever name designated, have played 
4 



I MEMOIR. 

> SO important a part in the history of hunian credulity from the 
dawn of time downwards. Upon this j)oint he was tenacious, and, 
as he fortified himself by what he supposed to be facts, he was 
wont to wax warm in defence of his Rosicrucian theory, when 
it chanced to be assailed. It is no reproach to his memory to 
say that his logic upon such a subject was necessarily defective, 
and it would be altogether unjust to condemn as a weakness 
his participation in an infirmity which has so often attached 
itself to the highest created intelligences. 

His habits of poetical composition were, I suspect, slow and 
even laborious, and there is ample evidence in his manuscripts to 
show that the divine oestrum was not always at command when 
most needed. That he prepared his productions with great care 
before he committed them to the press, or even inserted them in 
any of his commonplace books, is certain ; and the history of 
many of his freest compositions, could it be obtained, would de- 
monstrate that he never forgot the Horatian precept, but wisely 
remembered that nescit vox missa reverti. Of Jeanie Morrison, 
for example, there exist at least two rough draughts, if not more, 
in which this process of elaboration is very distinct, and out of 
which the poem as it now stands was wrought. There are, of 
course, different versions of particular stanzas, but the leading 
ideas and images are the same in all ; and as he was thirty -four 
years of age when he published the ballad in its present form, we 
thus see that this single production was, in a certain sense, the 
work of a life.* 

In his habits of study he was necessarily desultory. No one 

* I would not be understood as disputing the fact, that he 
sketched the outline of this poem at fourteen, because I see no just 
reason to doubt it ; but the earliest copy ftow existing was written 
.when he was eighteen, or perhaps twenty. 



MEMOIR. li 

who is engaged in the active business of the world can be other- 
wise ; but except in that particular and somewhat narrow depart- 
ment of literature for which he had contracted so strong a par- 
tiality in early life, it cannot be said of Motherwell that he was a 
"well-read" man. With physical science he was but slightly ac- 
quainted, and he had neglected general history, including even 
that of his own country, to an extraordinary degree. From some 
peculiarity of temperament which is not easily explained, he pre- 
ferred such writers as Holinshed and Stowe to Hume and Hallam ; 
and the only modern historical work of any note that I ever recol- 
lect to have heard him speak of, was Sharon Turner's History of 
the Anglo-Saxons. He had likewise a strong distaste to what is 
commonly called metaphysics, and particularly for the writers of 
the Scotch school, of whom he sometimes spoke in terms of greater 
confidence than his acquaintance with their works entitled him to 
do ; but he professed a deep reverence for Coleridge, whose 
Friend he considered a masterpiece of philosophy. I do not 
recollect of ever having heard him even allude to Burke, and for 
Sir James Mackintosh he had conceived an unreasonable dislike. 
These carelessnesses and prejudices are to be regretted, since they 
tended to abridge his knowledge and to impair his usefulness ; but 
they are probably to be referred to the circumstances in which he 
was placed, rather than to any defect in his mental constitution. 
A more liberal intercourse with mankind would have disabused 
him of many of those prepossessions which he had hastily adopt- 
ed and had little temptation to abandon, and his better nature 
would have done the rest. 

In his personal tastes and feelings he was essentially and ardent- 
ly Scottish. The language and literature of his native country he 
had studied with care and success, and to her legendary poetry and 
metrical traditions he attached a high value. The land was also 



lii MEMOIR 

beautiful in his eyes, and no wandering minstrel of ancient times 
could have been impressed with a loftier sense of the valor of the 
men or the virtue of the women who dwelt within its limits. That 
he was a devout admirer of external nature his poems amply tes« 
tify. The vast solitude of the universe and the sublime depths of 
space filled his soul with a holy awe ', and whether he looked upon 
the heavens above with their countless myriads of stars, or upon 
the earth beneath with its garment of green, and its hills and val- 
leys and running streams, his mind was equally impressed with 
the majesty and power of that great Being who made and sustains 
all things. 

God ! this is an holy hour : — 
Thy breath is o'er the land : 

1 feel it in each little flower 

Around me where I stand ; — 
In all the moonshine scattered fair, * 

Above, below me, everywhere, — 
In every dew-bead glistening sheen, 
In every leaf and blade of green, — 
And in this silence, grand and deep, 
Wherein thy blessed creatures sleep.* 

An elaborate analysis of Motherwell's character as a poet would 
not be compatible with the objects and limits of this slight sketch ; 
but it is fortunately rendered unnecessary by the criticism of Pro- 
fessor Wilson, which appeared in Blackwood's Magazine for April, 
1833. 

"All his perceptions are clear, for all his senses are sound. He 
has fine and strong sensibilities, and a powerful intellect. He has 
been led by the natural bent of his genius to the old haunts of in- 
spiration, — the woods and glens of his native country, — and his 

* Midnight and Moonshine. 



MEMOIR. 



liii 



ears delight to drink the music of her old songs. Many a beau- 
tiful ballad has blended its pensive and plaintive pathos with his 
day-dreams, and while reading some of his happiest effusions, we 
feel 

' The ancient spirit is not dead, — 
Old times, we say, are breathing there.' 

" His style is simple, but in his tenderest movements masculine ; 
he strikes a few bold knocks at the door of the heart, which is 
instantly opened by the master or mistress of the house, or by son 
or daughter, and the welcome visitor at once becomes one of the 
family." * 

This is generous praise, but not more generous than just, and 
it places the whole case before us by a few vivid strokes. It 
may be remarked, however, that the field which he chose for 
the exercise of the higher efforts of his genius was unappro- 
priated by any name of marked celebrity, and that there was 
both originality and boldness in the thought, that he could win 
his way to fame through apparently so unpromising a chan- 
nel as the Scandinavian mythology, and by the adaptation to 
modern verse of the stern thoughts and sanguinary aspirations 
of the Northern Scalds. It is obvious that, in so daring an enter- 
prise, any thing short of entire success would have been fatal to 
the reputation of its author, and that, upon a theme at once so 
novel and so vast, mediocrity would not have been tolerated ; 
and it has always appeared to me, that to have triumphed so 
completely over the latent prejudices of society, and to have ex- 
torted the reluctant praise of the critical world, was, in Mother- 
well's circumstances, the strongest proof he could give of the vigor 
and elasticity of his powers. Such men as Wordsworth, Southey, 

* Blackwood's Magazine, Vol. XXXIII. p. 670. 



liv MEMOIR. 

and Coleridge could afford some abatement from that full har- 
vest of renown which they had accumulated ; but to a person 
in Motherwell's position the case was widely different, and the 
punishment of failure would have been proportioned in its se- 
verity to the alleged presumption of the attempt. He did not 
fail, however, nor — as the result showed — was his confidence 
in himself overrated ; and his metrical imitations of the Sagas 
are not only distinguished by an exact fidelity of tone and senti- 
ment, but are considered by competent judges to be fine heroic 
ballads, which display energetic powers of description, united 
to a high dramatic faculty. Had Gray followed out his original 
intention, and given to the world that " History of Poetry," of 
which he had at one time meditated the composition, his successor 
would have had to encounter a much more formidable competition 
than that which actually awaited him ; but he, as is well known, 
abandoned the design, and, except " The Fatal Sisters " and 
," The Descent of Odin," I cannot call to mind any other purely 
English poems constructed upon a Northern basis. It may argue 
an undue partiality, but I prefer " The Battle-Flag of Sigurd " 
to either of Gray's odes.* 

That the manners of the Valhalla and the exploits of the 
Vikingr had made a lasting impression upon Motherwell's im- 

* Had the intellect of Collins preserved its balance, the Norse 
legends would have afforded an inexhaustible supply of those ma- 
terials in which his genius most delighted. " He loved fairies, 
genii, giants, and monsters ; he delighted to rove through the 
meanders of enchantment, to gaze on the magnificence of golden 
palaces, to repose by the waterfalls of Elysian gardens." — (John- 
son.) His ode on " The Passions " shows how familiar his 
mind was with those terrible images in which we naturally, as it 
were, involve the harsher emotions of the soul ; and it is probable, 



MEMOIR. Iv 

agination, we have abundant proof in the first three poems of 
this volume ; and my own impression is, that in future times 
his fame will rest, in a great measure, on these splendid speci- 
mens of warlike invocation. As he comes nearer to ordinary 
life, his poetical individuality insensibly disappears, and the 
" uncouth lyre " of the " Runic bard " is exchanged for the 
softer harp of the modern minstrel. The old Scottish ballad 
might be as successfully imitated, perhaps, by men of far inferior 
capacity, and, exquisite as some of his lyrical compositions are, 
they might likewise be approached, if not excelled ; but for the 
conception and execution of " The Battle-Flag of Sigurd," " The 
Wooing Song of Jarl Egill Skallagrim," and " The Sword Chant 



from the extent and variety of his attainments, and his allusion in 
the ode on the popular superstition of the Highlands of Scotland, 
inscribed to Mr. Home, to those 

" Old Runic bards 

With uncouth lyres, in many-colored vest," 

that he was not unacquainted with the mythical treasures of the 
Sagas. There is nothing finer or more vigorous in the language 
than his description of Revenge : — 

*' He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down, 

And, with a withering look, 
The war-denouncing trumpet took, 
And blew a blast so loud and dread, 
Were ne'er prophetic sound so full of woe. 

And ever and anon he beat 

The doubling drum with furious heat ; 
And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between. 

Dejected Pity, at his side, 

Her soul-subduing voice applied. 
Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien, 
While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head." 



Ivi MEMOIR. 

of Thorstein Raudi," a special inspiration and peculiar powers 
were required ; and I will venture to predict that they will sur- 
vive the changes of time and the caprices of fashion. 

One of his most prominent defects as a lyrical poet is, in my 
opinion, the assumption — for it was no more — of a morbid 
tone of feeling respecting the world and its ways. Doubtless, 

" pictoribus atque poetis 
Quidlibet audendi semper fuit sequa potestas " ; 

but there is a natural limit to even this proverbial license, and 
a perpetual dirge about broken vows, slighted love, and human 
selfishness is apt to engender the idea, that the man who 
thus indulges in habitual lamentation over his own misfortunes 
must have been less discriminating in his friendships, or less de- 
serving of regard, than we could wish him to have been. But 
this was not the case with William Motherwell. Few men have 
enjoyed, and few men have more entirely merited, the strong 
and steady attachment of those with whom they associated ; and 
if life brought to him its share of sorrow and anxiety, it likewise 
afforded many and solid compensations for his sufferings, of 
which, I have not a doubt, he was fully sensible, and for which, 
I have as little doubt, he was truly thankful. I would not have 
noticed this peculiarity, had it not communicated to some of 
his effusions an air of harsh exaggeration, which was really 
foreign to his modest and uncomplaining nature, and did it 
not tend to create the belief, that my late friend, with all his 
gifts, was deficient in that humility of mind which should char- 
acterize a wise and a good man. This was not so ; and when 
passages — I regret to say that they are too numei'ous — do oc- 
cur which might encourage this notion, let me hope that they 
will not be construed to his prejudice, but that they may be 
looked upon as mere poetical embellishments. 



MEMOIR. IVU 

For the occasional defects which may be discovered in the 
mechanical structure of his verse, no very satisfactory explana- 
tion can be offered. He had made poetry and its laws the busi- 
ness of his life; yet imperfect lines and prosaic expressions do 
occur more frequently than could be desired, to mar the har- 
mony of some of his best pieces, and, in certain cases, even to 
impair their sense. The only account that I can give of this 
infirmity is, that his ear wanted rhythmical accuracy, and that, 
from some peculiarity of his physical organization, he was un- 
able to appreciate the more delicate modulations of sound. He 
was eminently unmusical ; not that he disliked music, far from 
it ; but that his love of melody did not counterbalance his un- 
acquaintance with the rules of harmony, of breaches of which 
he was often, though unintentionally, guilty. 

Upon the whole, his place as a minor poet is a distinguished 
one. He has undoubtedly enriched the language with many 
noble specimens of manly song ; and when it is remembered 
that he prosecuted his poetical studies in silence and retirement, 
animated alone by the love of his art, and sustained through 
many long years of trial and of toil by the distant gleam of 
posthumous fame, it will not be disputed that his motives to 
action were exalted, and his exertions in the cause of human 
improvement disinterested. 

Ossa quieta, precor, tuta requiescite in uma ; 
Et sit humus cineri non onerosa tuo. 

J. M'C. 

Glasgow, December 23, 1846. 



POEMS. 



POEMS. 



THE BATTLE-FLAG OF SIGURD, 

I. 

The eagle hearts of all the North 

Have left their stormy strand ; 

The warriors of the world are forth 

To choose another land ! 

Again their long keels sheer the wave, 

Their broad sheets court the breeze ; 

Again the reckless and the brave 

Ride lords of weltering seas. 

Nor swifter from the well-bent bow 

Can feathered shaft be sped, 

Than o'er the ocean's flood of snow 

Their snorting galleys tread. 

Then lift the can to bearded lip, 

And smite each sounding shield, 



62 



Wassaile ! to every dark-ribbed ship, 

To every battle-field ! 
So proudly the Scalds raise their voices of triumph, 
As the Northmen ride over the broad-bosomed billow. 



II. 

Aloft, Sigurdir's battle-flag 

Streams onward to the land, 

Well may the taint of slaughter lag 

On yonder glorious strand. 

The waters of the mighty deep, 

The wild birds of the sky. 

Hear it like vengeance shoreward sweep, 

Where moody men must die. 

The waves wax wroth beneath our keel, — 

The clouds above us lower, — 

They know the battle-sign, and feel 

All its resistless power ! 

Who now uprears Sigurdir's flag, 

Nor shuns an early tomb ? 

Who shoreward through the swelling surge 

Shall bear the scroll of doom ? 
So shout the Scalds, as the long ships are nearing 
Tlie low-lying shores of a beautiful land. 



63 



III. 

Silent the Self-devoted stood 

Beside the massive tree ; 

His image mirrored in the flood 

Was terrible to see ! 

As leaning on his gleaming axe, 

And gazing on the wave, 

His fearless soul was churning up 

The death-rune of the brave. 

Upheaving then his giant form 

Upon the brown bark's prow, 

And tossing back the yellow storm 

Of hair from his broad brow ; 

The lips of song burst open, and 

The words of fire rushed out, 

And thundering through that martial crew 

Pealed Harald's battle-shout ; — 
It is Harald the Dauntless that lifteth his great voice, 
As the Northmen roll on with the doom-written banner. 



IV. 

" I bear Sigurdir's battle-flag 
Through sunshine or through gloom ; 
Through swelling surge on bloody strand 
I plant the scroll of doom ! 



u 



On Scandia's lonest, bleakest waste, 

Beneath a starless sky, , 

The Shadowy Three like meteors passed. 

And bade young Harald die ; — 

They sang the war-deeds of his sires, 

And pointed to their tomb ; 

They told him that this ff lory- flag 

Was his by right of doom. 

Since then, where hath young Harald been, 

But where JarPs son should be ? 

'Mid war and waves, — the combat keen 

That raged on land or sea ! " 
So sings the fierce Harald, the thirster for glory, 
As his hand bears aloft the dark death-laden banner. 



V. 



*' Mine own death 's in this clenched hand ; 

I know the noble trust ; 

These limbs must rot on yonder strand. 

These lips must lick its dust, 

But shall this dusky standard quail 

In the red slaughter-day ; 

Or shall this heart its purpose fail, — 

This arm forget to slay ? 



65 



I trample down such idle doubt ; 
Harald's high blood, hath sprung 
From sires whose hands in martial bout 
Have ne'er belied their tongue ; 
Nor keener from their castled rock 
Rush eagles on their prey, 
Than, panting for the battle-shock, 
Young Harald leads the way." 
It is thus that tall Harald, in terrible beauty, 
Pours forth his big soul to the joyaiice of heroes. 



VI. 



" The ship-borne warriors of the North, 
The sons of Woden's race. 
To battle as to feast go forth, 
With stern and changeless face ; 
And I, the last of a great line, 
The Self-devoted, long 
To lift on high the Runic sign 
Which gives my name to song. 
In battle-field young Harald falls 
Amid a slaughtered foe. 
But backward never bears his flag, 
While streams to ocean flow ; — 
5 



66 



On, on above the crowded dead 
This Runic scroll sljall flare, 
And round it shall the lightnings spread, 
From swords that never spare." 
So rush the hero-words from the death-doomed one, 
While Scalds harp aloud the renown of his fathers. 

VII. 

*' Flag ! from your folds, and fiercely wake 

War-music on the wind. 

Lest tenderest thoughts should rise to shake 

The sternness of my mind ; 

Brynhilda, maiden meek and fair, 

Pale watcher by the sea, 

I hear thy wailings on the air, 

Thy heart's dirge sung for me : — 

In vain thy milk-white hands are wrung 

Above the salt sea foam ; 

The wave that bears me from thy bower 

Shall never bear me home ; 

Brynhilda ! seek another love. 

But ne'er wed one like me, 

Who death foredoomed from above 

Joys in his destiny." 



m 



Thus mourned young Harald as he thought on Bryn- 

hilda, 
While his eyes filled with tears which glittered, but 

fell not. 



VIII. 

" On sweeps Sigurdir's battle-flag, 

The scourge of far from shore ; 

It dashes through the seething foam, 

But I return no more ! 

Wedded unto a fatal bride, — 

Boune for a bloody bed, — 

And battling for her, side by side. 

Young Harald's doom is sped ! 

In starkest fight, where kemp on kemp 

Reel headlong to the grave, 

There Harald's axe shall ponderous ring. 

There Sigurd's flag shall wave ; — 

Yes, underneath this standard tall. 

Beside this fateful scroll, 

Down shall the tower-like prison fall 

Of Harald's haughty soul." 
So sings the Death-seeker, while nearer and nearer 
The fleet of the Northmen bears down to the shore. 



68 



IX. 

" Green lie those thickly timbered shores 

Fair sloping to the sea ; 

They 're cumbered with the harvest stores 

That wave but for the free : 

Our sickle is the gleaming sword, 

Our garner the broad shield, — 

Let peasants sow, but still he 's lord 

Who 's master of the field ; 

Let them come on, the bastard-born, 

Each soil-stained churl ! — alack ! 

What gain they but a splitten skull, 

A sod for their base back ? 

They sow for us these goodly lands, 

We reap them in our might. 

Scorning all title but the brands 

That triumph in the fight ! " 
It was thus the land-winners of old gained their glory, 
And gray stones voiced their praise in the bays of far 
isles. 



X. 



*' The rivers of yon island low 
Glance redly in the sun, 



69 



But ruddier still they 're doomed to glow, 

And deeper shall they run ; 

The torrent of proud life shall swell 

Each river to the brim, 

And in that spate of blood, how well 

The headless corpse will swim ! 

The smoke of many a shepherd's cot 

Curls from each peopled glen : 

And, hark ! the song of maidens mild, 

The shout of joyous men ! 

But one may hew the oaken tree, 

The other shape the shroud ; 

As the Landeyda o'er the sea 

Sweeps like a tempest cloud " : — 
So shouteth fierce Harald, — so echo the Northmen, 
As shoreward their ships like mad steeds are careering. 

XT. 

" Sigurdir's battle-flag is spread 
Abroad to the blue sky. 
And spectral visions of the dead 
Are trooping grimly by ; 
The spirit-heralds rush before 
Harald's destroying brand, 



70 



They hover o'er yon fated shore 

And death-devoted band. 

Marshal stout Jarls your battle fast ! 

And fire each beacon height, 

Our galleys anchor in the sound, 

Our "banners heave in sight ! 

And through the surge and arrowy shower 

That rains on this broad shield, 

Harald uplifts the sign of power 

Which rules the battle-field ! " 
So cries the Death-doomed on the red strand of slaughter, 
While the helmets of heroes like anvils are ringing. 



XII. 



On rolled the Northmen's war, above 

The Raven Standard flew, 

Nor tide nor tempest ever strove 

With vengeance half so true. 

'T is Harald, — 't is the Sire bereaved, 

Who goads the dread career. 

And high amid the flashing storm 

The flag of doom doth rear. 

" On, on," the tall Death-seeker cries, 

" These earth-worms soil our heel, 



71 



Their spear-points crash like crisping ice 

On ribs of stubborn steel ! " 

Hurra ! hurra ! their whirlwinds sweep, 

And Harald's fate is sped ; 

Bear on the flag, — he goes to sleep 

With the life-scorning dead. 
Thus fell the young Harald, as of old fell his sires, 
And the bright hall of heroes bade hail to his spirit. 



THE WOOING SONG OF JARL EGILL 
SKALLAGRIM. 

Bright maiden of Orkney, 
Star of the blue sea ! 
I 've swept o'er the waters 
To gaze upon thee ; 
I 've left spoil and slaughter, 
I 've left a far strand. 
To sing how I love thee, 
To kiss thy small hand ! 
Fair daughter of Einar, 
Golden-haired maid ! 
The lord of yon brown bark. 
And lord of this blade, — 
The joy of the ocean. 
Of warfare and wind, — 
Hath boune him to woo thee. 
And thou must be kind. 
So stoutly Jarl Egill wooed Torf Einar's daughter. 



73 



In Jutland, in Iceland, 
On Neustria's shore, 
Where'er the dark billow 
My gallant bark bore. 
Songs spoke of thy beauty, 
Harps sounded thy praise, 
And my heart loved thee long ere 
It thrilled in thy gaze : 
Ay, daughter of Einar, 
Right tall mayst thou stand ; 
It is a Vikingir 
Who kisses thy hand ; 
It is a Vikingir 
That bends his proud knee. 
And swears by Great Freya 
His bride thou must be ! 
So Jarl Egill swore when his great heart was fullest. 

Thy white arms are locked in 
Broad bracelets of gold ; 
Thy girdle-stead 's gleaming 
With treasures untold ; 
The circlet that binds up 
Thy long, yellow hair, 
Is starred thick with jewels, 
That bright are and rare ; 



74 



But gifts yet more princely 
Jarl Egill bestows : 
For girdle, his great arm 
Around thee he throws ; 
The bark of a sea-king, 
For palace, gives he, 
While mad waves and winds shall 
Thy true subjects be. 
So richly Jarl Egill endowed his bright bride. 

Nay, frown not, nor shrink thus, 
Nor toss so thy head, 
'T is a Vikingir asks thee, 
Land-maiden, to wed ! 
He skills not to woo thee, 
In trembling and fear, 
Though lords of the land may 
Thus troop with the deer. 
The cradle he rocked in 
So sound and so long. 
Hath framed him a heart 
And a hand that are strong : 
He comes then as Jarl should. 
Sword belted to side, 
To win thee and wear thee 
With glory and pride. 
So sternly Jarl Egill wooed, and smote his long brand. 



75 



Thy father, thy brethren, 
Thy kin, keep from me 
The maiden I 've sworn shall 
Be Queen of the sea ! 
A truce with that folly, — 
Yon sea-strand can show 
If this eye missed its aim, 
Or this arm failed its blow : 
I had not well taken 
Three strides on this land, 
Ere a Jarl and his six sons 
In death bit the sand. 
Nay, weep not, pale maid, though 
In battle should fall 
The kemps who would keep thy 
Bridegroom from the hall. 
So carped Jarl Egill, and kissed the bright weeper. 

Through shadows and horrors. 
In worlds underground. 
Through sounds that appall 
And through sights that confound, 
I sought the Weird women 
Within their dark cell. 
And made them surrender 
Futurity's spell ; 



76 



I made them rune over 
The dim scroll so free, 
And mutter how fate sped 
With lovers like me ; 
Yes, maiden, I forced them 
To read forth my doom. 
To say how I should fare 
As jolly bridegroom. 
So Jarl Egill's love dared the world of grim shadows. 

They waxed and they waned. 
They passed to and fro. 
While lurid fires gleamed o'er 
Their faces of snow ; 
Their stony eyes, moveless, 
Did glare on me long. 
Then sullen they chanted : 
" The Sword and the Song 
Prevail with the gentle. 
Sore chasten the rude, 
And sway to their purpose 
Each evil-shaped mood ! " 
Fair daughter of Einar, 
I 've sung the dark lay 
That the Weird sisters runed, and 
Which thou must obey. 
So fondly Jarl Egill loved Einar's proud daughter. 



77 



The curl of that proud lip, 
The flash of that eye, 
The swell of that bosom, 
So full and so high, 
Like foam of sea-billow. 
Thy white bosom shows. 
Like flash of red levin 
Thine eagle eye glows : 
Ha ! firmly and boldly. 
So stately and free. 
Thy foot treads this chamber. 
As bark rides the sea : 
This likes me, — this likes tne, 
Stout maiden of mould, 
Thou wooest to purpose ; 
Bold hearts love the bold. 
So shouted Jarl Egill, and clutched the proud maiden. 

Away and away then, 

I have thy small hand ; 

Joy with me, — our tall bark 

Now bears toward the strand ; 

I call it the Raven, 

The wing of black night. 

That shadows forth ruin 

O'er islands of light : 



78 



Once more on its long deck, 
Behind us the gale, 
Thou shalt see how before it 
Great kingdoms do quail : 
Thou shalt see then how truly. 
My noble-souled maid, 
The ransom of kings can 
Be won by this blade. 
So bravely Jarl Egill did soothe the pale trembler. 

Ay, gaze on its large hilt, 
One wedge of red gold ; 
But doat on its blade, gilt 
With blood of the bold. 
The hilt is right seemly, 
But nobler the blade. 
That swart Velint's hammer 
With cunning spells made ; 
I call it the Adder, 
Death lurks in its bite. 
Through bone and proof-harness 
It scatters pale light. 
Fair daughter of Einar, 
Deem high of the fate 
That makes thee, like this blade. 
Proud EgilPs loved mate ! 
So Jarl Egill bore off Torf Einar's bright daughter. 



THE SWORD CHANT OF THORSTEIN RAUDI. 

'T IS not the gray hawk's flight 

O'er mountain and mere ; 
'T is not the fleet hound's course 

Tracking the deer ; 
'T is not the light hoof-print 

Of black steed or gray, 
Though sweltering it gallop 

A long summer's day ; 
Which mete forth the Lordships 

I challenge as mine ; 
Ha ! ha ! 't is the good brand 
I clutch in my strong hand, 
That can their broad marches 

And numbers define. 
Land Giver ! I kiss thee. 

Dull builders of houses, 
Base tillers of earth, 



80 

Gaping, ask me what lordships 

I owned at my birth ; 
Byt the pale fools wax mute 

When I point with my sword 
East, west, north, and south. 

Shouting, " There am I Lord ! " 
Wold and waste, town and tower, 

Hill, valley, and stream, 
Trembling, bow to my sway 
In the fierce battle-fray. 
When the star that rules Fate is 

This falchion's red gleam. 
Mighty Giver ! I kiss thee. 

I 've heard great harps sounding, 

In brave bower and hall, 
I 've drank the sweet music 

That bright lips let fall, 
I 've hunted in greenwood. 

And heard small birds sing ; 
But away with this idle 

And cold jargoning ; 
The music I love is 

The shout of the brave, 
The yell of the dying, 
The scream of the flying, 



81 



When this arm wields death's sickle, 

And garner's the grave. 
Joy Giver ! I kiss thee. 

Far isles of the ocean 

Thy lightning have knovrn, 
And wide o'er the mainland 

Thy horrors have shone. 
Great sword of my father, 

Stern joy of his hand, 
Thou hast carved his name deep on 

The stranger's red strand. 
And won him the glory 

Of undying song. 
Keen cleaver of gay crests. 
Sharp piercer of broad breasts, 
Grim slayer of heroes. 

And scourge of the strong. 
Fabie Giver ! I kiss thee. 

In a love more abiding 
Than that the heart knows 

For maiden more lovely 
Than summer's first rose. 

My heart 's knit to thine. 

And lives but for thee ; 
6 



B2 

In dreamings of gladness, 

Thou 'rt dancing with me 
Brave measures of madness 

In some battle-field, 
Where armor is ringing, 
And noble blood springing, 
And cloven, yawn helmet, 

Stout hauberk, and shield. 
Death Giver ! I kiss thee. 

The smile of a maiden's eye 

Soon may depart ; 
And light is the faith of 

Fair woman's heart ; 
Changeful as light clouds, 

And wayward as wind. 
Be the passions that govern 

Weak woman's mind. 
But thy metal 's as true 

As its polish is bright ; 
When ills wax in number, 
Thy love will not slumber. 
But, starlike, burns fiercer, 

The darker the night. 
Heart Gladdener ! I kiss thee. 



83 

My kindred have perished 

By war or by wave, — 
Now, childless and sireless, 

I long for the grave. 
When the path of our glory 

Is shadowed in death, 
With me thou wilt slumber 

Below the brown heath ; 
Thou wilt rest on my bosom, 

And with it decay, — 
While harps shall be ringing, 
And Scalds shall be singing 
The deeds we have done in 

Our old fearless day. 
Song Giver ! I kiss thee. 



JEANIE MORRISON. 

I Ve wandered east, I 've wandered west, 

Through mony a weary way ; 
But never, never can forget 

The luve o' life's young day ! 
The fire that 's blawn on Beltane e'en 

May weel be black gin Yule ; 
But blacker fa' awaits the heart 

Where first fond luve grows cule. 

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

The thochts o' bygane years 
Still fling their shadows ower my path, 

And blind my een wi' tears : 
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears. 

And sair and sick I pine, 
As memory idly summons up 

The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 



85 



'T was then we luvit ilk ither weel, 

'T was then we twa did part ; 
Sweet time, — sad time ! twa bairns at scule, 

Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! 
'T was then we sat on ae laigh bink. 

To leir ilk ither lear ; 
And tones and looks and smiles were shed, 

Remembered evermair. 

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, 

When sitting on that bink. 
Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof. 

What our wee heads could think. 
When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, 

Wi' ae buik on our knee, 
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 

My lesson was in thee. 

O, mind ye how we hung our heads, 

How cheeks brent red wi' shame. 
Whene'er the scule-weans laughin' said, 

We cleeked thegither hame ? 
And mind ye o' the Saturdays, 

(The scule then skail't at noon,) 
When we ran off to speel the braes, — 

The broomy braes o' June ? 



86 



My head rins round and round about, 

My heart flows like a sea, 
As ane by ane the thochts rush back 

O' scule-time and o' thee. 
O mornin' life ! O mornin' luve ! 

O lichtsome days and lang, 
When hinnied hopes around our hearts 

Like simmer blossoms sprang ! 

O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left 

The deavin' dinsome toun. 
To wander by the green burnside. 

And hear its waters croon ? 
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, 

The flowers burst round our feet. 
And in the gloamin o' the wood 

The throssil whusslit sweet ; 

The throssil whusslit in the wood. 

The burn sang to the trees, 
And we with Nature's heart in tune. 

Concerted harmonies ; 
And on the knowe abune the burn, 

For hours thegither sat 
In the silentness o' joy, till baith 

Wi' very gladness grat. 



87 



Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Tears trinkled doun your cheek 
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane 

Had ony power to speak ! 
That was a time, a blessed time, 

When hearts were fresh and young, 
When freely gushed all feelings forth, 

Unsyllabled, — unsung ! 

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 

Gin I hae been to thee 
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts, 

As ye hae been to me ? 
O, tell me gin their music fills 

Thine ear as it does mine ! 
O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit 

Wi' dreamings o' langsyne ? 

I 've wandered east, I 've wandered west, 

I 've borne a weary lot ; 
But in my wanderings, far or near. 

Ye never were forgot. 
The fount that first burst frae this heart 

Still travels on its way ; 
And channels deeper, as it rins, 

The luve o' life's young day. 



88 



dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
Since we were sindered young, 

1 've never seen your face, nor heard 

The music o' your tongue ; 
But I could hug all wretchedness. 

And happy could I die. 
Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 

O' bygane days and me ! 



MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE. 

My held is like to rend, Willie, 

My heart is like to break, — 
I 'm wearin' afF my feet, Willie, 

I 'm dyin' for your sake ! 
O, lay your cheek to mine, Willie, 

Your hand on Iny briest-bane, — 
O, say ye 'II think on me, Willie, 

When I am deid and gane ! 

It 's vain to comfort me, Willie, 

Sair grief maun ha'e its will, — 
But let me rest upon your briest, 

To sab and greet my fill. 
Let me sit on your knee, Willie, 

Let me shed by your hair. 
And look into the face, Willie, 

I never sail see mair ! 



90 



I 'm sittin' on your knee, Willie, 

For the last time in my life, — 
A puir heart-broken thing, Willie, 

A mither, yet nae wife. 
Ay, press your hand upon my heart. 

And press it mair and mair, — 
Or it will burst the silken twine, 

Sae Strang is its despair. 

O, wae 's me for the hour, Willie, 

When we thegither met, — 
O, wae 's me for the time, Willie, 

That our first tryst was set ! 
O, wae 's me for the loanin' green 

Where we were wont to gae, — 
And wae 's me for the destinie 

That gart me luve thee sae ! 

O, dinna mind my words, Willie, 

I downa seek to blame, — 
But O, it 's hard to live, Willie, 

And dree a warld's shame ! 
Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek. 

And hailin' ower your chin ; 
Why weep ye sae for worthlessness, 

For sorrow, and for sin ? 



91 



I 'm weary o' this warld, Willie, 

And sick wi' a' I see, — 
I canna live as I ha'e lived, 

Or be as I should be. 
But fauld unto your heart, Willie, 

The heart that still is thine, ^ — 
And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek, 

Ye said was red langsyne. 

A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie, 

A sair stoun' through my heart, — 
O, baud me up and let me kiss 

Thy brow ere we twa» pairt. 
Anither, and anither yet ! — 

How fast my life-strings break ! — 
Fareweel ! fareweel ! through yon kirk-yard 

Step lichtly for my sake ! 

The lav'rock in the lift, Willie, 

That lilts far ower our heid. 
Will sing the morn as merrilie 

Abune the clay-caul d deid ; 
And this green turf we 're sittin' on, 

Wi dew-draps shimmerin' sheen. 
Will hap the heart tl^fit luvit thee 

As warld has seldom seen. 



92 



But O, remember me, Willie, 

On land where'er ye be, — 
And O, think on the leal, leal heart, 

That ne'er luvit ane but thee ! 
And O, think on the cauld, cauld mools. 

That file my yellow hair, — 
That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin. 

Ye never sail kiss mair ! 



THE MADMAN'S LOVE. 

Ho ! Flesh and Blood ! sweet Flesh and Blood 

As ever strode on earth ! 
Welcome to Water and to Wood, — • 

To all a Madman's mirth. 
This tree is mine, this leafless tree 

That 's writhen o'er the linn ; 
The stream is mine, that fitfully 
, Pours forth its sullen din. 
Their lord am I ; and still my dream 
Is of this Tree, — is of that Stream. 

The Tree, the Stream, — a deadly Twain ! 

They will not live apart ; 
The one rolls thundering through my brain. 

The other smites my heart : 
Ay, this same leafless, fire-scathed tree, 

That groweth by the rock. 



94 



Shakes its old, sapless arms at me, 
And would my madness mock ! 
The slaves are saucy, — well they know 
Good service did they long ago. 

I 've lived two lives : The first is past 

Some hundred years or more^; 
But still the present is o'ercast 

With visionings of yore. 
This tree, this rock, that 's cushioned sweet 

With tufts of savory thyme, 
That unseen river, which doth greet 

Our ears with its rude rhyme. 
Were then as now, — they form the chain 
That links the present with past pain. 

Sweet Flesh and Blood ! how deadly chill 

These milk-white fingers be ! 
The feathery ribs of ice-bound rill 

Seem not so cold to me ; — 
But press them on this burning brow 

Which glows like molten brass, 
'T will thaw them soon ; then thou shalt know 

How ancient visions pass 
Before mine eyes, like shapes of life, 
Kindling old loves and deadly strife. 



95 



Drink to me first ! — nay, do not scorn 

These sparkling dews of night ; 
I pledge thee in the silver horn 

Of yonder moonlet bright ; 
'T is stinted measure now, but soon 

Thy cup shall overflow ; 
It half was spilled two hours agone, 

That little flowers might grow, 
And weave for me fine robes of silk ; 
For which good deed, stars drop them milk. 

Nay, take the horn into thy hand, 

The goodly silver horn. 
And quafl" it off. At my command 

Each flower-cup, ere the morn. 
Shall brimful be of glittering dews, 

And then we '11 have large store 
Of heaven's own vintage ripe for use, 

To pledge our healths thrice o'er ; 
So skink the can as maiden free. 
Then troll the merry bowl to me ! 

Hush ! — drink no more ! for now the trees. 

In yonder grand old wood. 
Burst forth in sinless melodies, 

To cheer my solitude ; 



96 



Trees sing thus every night to me, 

So mournfully and slow, — 
They think, dear hearts, 't were well for me. 

Could large tears once forth flow 
From this hard frozen eye of mine, 
As freely as they stream from thine. 

Ay, ay, they sing right passing well. 

And pleasantly in tune, 
To midnight winds a canticle 

That floats up to the moon ; 
And she goes wandering near and far 

Through yonder vaulted skies, 
No nook whereof but hath a star 

Shed for me from her eyes ; — 
She knows I cannot weep, but she 
Weeps worlds of light for love of me ! 

Yes, in her bower of clouds she weeps 

Night after night for me, — 
The lonely man that sadly keeps 

Watch by the blasted tree. 
She spreads o'er these lean ribs her beams, 

To scare the cutting cold ; 
She lends me light to read my dreams. 

And rightly to unfold 



97 



The mysteries that make men mad, 
Or wise, or wild, or good, or bad. 

So lovingly she shines through me, 

Without me and within. 
That even thou, methinks, might'st see, 

Beneath this flesh so thin, 
A heart that like a ball of fire 

Is ever blazing there. 
Yet dieth not ; for still the lyre 

Of heaven soothes its despair, — 
The lyre that sounds so sadly sweet. 
When winds and woods and waters meet. 

Hush ! hush ! so sang yon ghastly wood, 

So moaned the sullen stream. 
One night, as two on this rock stood 

Beneath this same moonbeam : — 
Nay, start not ! — one was Flesh and Blood, 

A dainty, straight-limbed dame. 
That clung to me, and sobbed, — O God^! 

Struggling with maiden shame. 
She faltered forth her love, and swore, — 
" On land or sea, thine evekmoke ! " 
7 



98 



By Wood, by Water, and by Wind, 

Yea, by the blessed light 
Of the brave moon, that maiden kind 

Eternal faith did plight ; 
Yea, by the rock on which we stood, — 

This altar-stone of yore, — 
That loved one said, " On land or flood, 

Thine, thine for evermore ! " 
The earth reeled round, I gasped for breath, 
I loved, and was beloved till death ! 

I felt upon my brow a kiss, 

Upon my cheek a tear ; 
I felt that now life's sum of bliss 

Was more than heart could bear. 
Life's sum of bliss ? say rather pain. 

For heart to find its mate. 
To love, and be beloved again. 

Even when the hand of Fate 
Motions farewell ! — and one must be 
A wanderer on the faithless sea» 

Ay, Land or Sea ! for, mark me now. 

Next mwDrrow o'er the foam. 
Sword girt to side, and helm on brow, 

I left a sorrowing home ; 



99 



Yet still I lived as very part 

Even of this sainted rock, 
Where first that loved one's tristful heart 

Its secret treasure broke 
In my love-thirsting ear alone, 
Here, here, on this huge altar-stone. 

Hear'st thou the busy sounds that come 

From yonder glittering shore : 
The madness of the doubling drum, 

The naker's sullen roar, — 
The wild and shrilly strains that swell 

From each bright, brassy horn, — 
The fluttering of each penoncel 

By knightly lance upborne, — 
The clear ring of each tempered shield. 
And proud steeds neighing far afield ? 

Sweet Flesh and Blood ! my tale 's not told, 

'T is scantly well begun : — 
Our vows were passed, in heaven enrolled, 

And then next morrow's sun 
Saw banners waving in the wind. 

And tall barks on the sea : 
Glory before, and Love behind. 

Marshalled proud chivalrie, 



100 



As every valor-freighted ship 
Its gilt prow in the wave did dip. 

And then passed o'er a merry time, — 

A roistering, gamesome life. 
Till cheeks were tanned with many a clime. 

Brows scarred in many a strife. 
But what of that ? Year after year, 

In every battle's shock, 
Or 'mid the storms of ocean drear, 

My heart clung to this rock ; 
Was with its very being blent, 
Sucking from it brave nourishment. 

All life, all feeling, every thought, 

Was centred in this spot ; 
The unforgetting being wrought 

Upon the Unforgot. 
Time fleeted on ; but time ne'er dimmed 

The picturings of the heart, — 
Freshly as when they first were limned, 

Truth's fadeless tints would start ; 
Yes ! wheresoe'er Life's bark might steer. 
This changeless heart was anchored here. 

Ha ! laugh, sweet Flesh and Blood, outright, 
Nor smother honest glee. 



101 

Your time is now ; but ere this night 

Hath travelled over me, 
My time shall come ; and then, ay, then 

The wanton stars shall reel 
Like drunkards all, when we madmen 

Upraise our laughter peel. 
I see the cause : the Twain, — the One, 
The Shape that gibbered in the sun ! 

You pinch my wrist, you press my knee, 

With fingers long and small ; 
Light fetters these, — not so on me 

Did heathen shackles fall. 
When I was captived in the fight 

On Candy's fatal shore ; 
And paynims won a battered knight, 

A living well of gore ; — 
How the knaves smote me to the ground. 
And hewed me like a tree all round ! 

They hammered irons on my hand. 

And irons on my knee ; 
They bound me fast, with many a band. 

To pillar and to tree ; 
They flung me in a loathsome pit. 

Where loathly things were rife, — 



102 

Where newt and toad and rat would sit, 

Debating for my life, 
On my breast-bone ; while 6ne and all 
Hissed, fought, and voided on their thrall. 

Yet lived I on, and, madman-like, 

With unchanged heart I lay ; 
No venom to its core could strike. 

For it was far away : — 
'T was even here beside this Tree, 

Its Trysting-place of yore. 
Where that fond maiden swore to me, 

" Thine, thine, for evermore." 
Faith in her vow made that pit seem 
The palace of Arabian dream. 

And so was passed a weary time, 

How long I cannot tell, 
'T was years ere in that sunny clime 

A sunbeam on me fell. 
But from that tomb I rushed in tears. 

The fetters fell from me. 
They rusted through with damp and years. 

And rotted was the tree, 
When the Undying crawled from night, — 
From loathsomeness, into God's light. 



103 

Lord ! there was a flood of sound 
Came rushing through my ears, 

When I arose from underground, 
A wild thing shedding tears : — 

The voices of glad birds and brooks, 
And eke of greenwood tree. 

With all the long-remembered looks 
Of earth, and sky, and sea, 

Danced madly through my 'wildered brain. 

And shook me like a wind-swung chain. 

Men marvelled at the ghastly form 

That sat before the sun, — 
That laughed to scorn the pelting storm. 

Nor would the thunders shun ; 
The bearded Shape, that gibbered sounds 

Of uncouth lore and lands. 
Struck awe into these heathen hounds. 

Who, lifting up their hands. 
Blessed the wild prophet, and then brought 
Raiment and food unthanked, unsought. 

1 have a dreaming of the sea, — 

A dreaming of the land, — 
A dreaming that again to me 

Belonged a good knight's brand, — 



104 

A dreaming that this brow was pressed 
With plumed helm once more, 

Tl^t linked mail reclad this breast 
When I retrod the shore, 

The blessed shores of my fatherland. 

And knelt in prayer upon its strand. 

" Years furrow brows and channel cheeks. 

But should not chase old loves away ; 
The language which true heart first speaks, 

That language must it hold for aye." 
This poesie a war-worn man 

Did mutter to himself one night, 
As upwards to this cliff he ran. 

That shone in the moonlight ; 
And by the moonlight curiously 
He scanned the bark of this old tree. 

" No change is here, all things remain 

As they were years ago ; 
With selfsame voice the old woods playne, 

When shrilly winds do blow, — 
Still murmuring to itself, the stream 

Rolls o'er its rocky bed, — 
Still smiling in its quiet dream. 

The small flower nods its head ; 



105 

And I stand here," the War-worn said, 
" Like Nature's heart unaltered." 

Now, Flesh and Blood, that sits by me 

On this bare ledge of stone. 
So sat that Childe of chivalrie, 

One summer eve alone. 
I saw him, and methought he seemed 

Like to the bearded Form 
That sat before the sun, and gleamed 

Defiance to the storm ; 
I saw him in his war-weed sit, 
And other Two before him flit. 

Yes, in the shadow of that tree, 

And motionless as stone, 
Sat the War-worn, while mirthfully 

The other Two passed on ; — 
By heaven ! one was a comely bride, 

Her face gleamed in the moon. 
As richly as in full-fleshed pride 

Bright roses burst in June ; 
Methought she was the maiden mild. 
That whilom loved the wandering Childe ! 

But it was not her former love 
That wandered with her there, — 



106 

O, no ! long absence well may move 

A maiden to despair ; 
Old loves we cast unto the winds, 

Old vows into the sea, 
'T is lightsome for all gentle minds 

To be as fancy free. 
So the Vow-pledged One loved another, 
And wantoned with a younger brother. 

I heard a dull, hoarse chuckle sound, 

Beside that trysting-tree ; 
I saw, uprising from the ground, 

A ghastly shape like me. 
But no ! — it was the War-worn wight. 

That, pale as whited wall. 
Strode forth into the moonshine bright. 

And let the hoarse sounds fall. 
A voice uprushing from the tomb 
Than his were less fulfilled with doom. 

" Judgment ne'er sleeps ! " the War-worn said, 

As, striding into light. 
He stood before that shuddering maid. 

Between her and that knight. 
Judgment ne'er sleeps ! 't is wondrous odd, 

One gurgle, one long sigh. 



107 

Ended it all ! Upon this sod 

Lay one with unclosed eye, 
And then the boiling linn that night 
Flung on its banks a lady bright. 

She tripped towards me as you have tripped, 

Pale maiden ! and as cold ; 
She sipped with me, as you have sipped, 

Night dews, and then I told 
To her, as you, my weary tale 

Of double life and pain ; 
And thawed her fingers chill and pale 

Upon my burning brain ; — 
That daintiest piece of Flesh on earth, 
I welcomed to all my mirth. 

And then I pressed her icy hand 

Within my burning palm, 
And told her tales of that far land 

Of sunshine, flowers, and balm ; 
I told her of the damp, dark hole, 

The fetters, and the tree. 
And of the slimy things that stole 

O'er shuddering flesh so free : 
Yea, of the Bearded Ghastliness 
That sat in the sun's loveliness. 



108 



I welcomed her, I welcome thee, 

To sit upon this stone, 
And meditate all night with me, 

On ages that are gone ; 
To dream again each marvellous dream 

Of passion and of truth, 
And reconstruct each shattered beam 

That glorified glad youth. 
These were the days ! — hearts then could feel, 
Eyes weep, and slumbers o'er them steal. 

But not so now. The second life 

That v^earied hearts must live 
Is woven with that thread of strife, — 

Forget not, nor Forgive ! 
Fires, scorching fires, run through our veins, 

Our corded sinews crack, 
And molten lead boils in our brains, 

For marrow to the back. ' 

Ha ! ha ! What 's Life ? Think of the joke. 
The fiercest fire still ends in smoke ! 

Fill up the cup ! fill up the can ! 

Drink, drink, sweet Flesh and Blood, 
The health of the grim, bearded man 

That haunteth solitude ; — 



109 

The wood pours forth its melodies, 

And stars whirl fast around ; 
Yon moon-ship scuds before the breeze, — 

Hark, how sky-billows sound ! 
Drink, Flesh and Blood ! then trip with me 
One measure round the Madman's Tree ! 



HALBERT THE GRIM. 

There is blood on that brow, ' 
There is blood on that hand ; 

There is blood on that hauberk, 
And blood on that brand. 

O, bloody all o'er is 
His war-cloak, I weet ; 

He is wrapped in the cover 
Of murder's red sheet ! 

There is pity in man, — 

Is there any in him ? 
No ! ruth were a strange guest 

To Halbert the Grim. 

The hardest may sof^ten, 

The fiercest repent ; 
But the heart of Grim Halbert 

May never relent. 



Ill 

Death-doing on earth is 

For ever his cry ; 
And pillage and plunder 

His hope in the sky ! 

'T is midnight, deep midnight, 

And dark is the heaven ; 
Sir Halbert, in mockery, 

Wends to be shriven. 

He kneels not to stone, 

And he bends not to wood ; 

But he swung round his brown blade. 
And hewed down the Rood ! 

He stuck his long sword, with 

Its point in the earth ; 
And he prayed to its cross-hilt, 

In mockery and mirth. 

Thus lowly he louteth. 

And mumbles his beads ; 
Then lightly he riseth, 

And homeward he speeds. 



112 

His steed hurries homewards, 

Darkling and dim ; 
Right fearful it prances 

With Halbert the Grim. 

Still fiercer it tramples, 
The spur gores its side ; 

Now downward and downward 
Grim Halbert doth ride. 

The brown wood is threaded. 
The gray flood is passed, 

Yet hoarser and wilder 
Moans ever the blast. 

No star lends its taper. 
No moon sheds her glow ; 

For dark is the dull path 
That Baron must go. 

Though starless the sky, and 
No moon shines abroad. 

Yet, flashing with fire, all 
At once gleams the road. 



113 

And his black steed, I trow, 

As it galloped on, 
With a hot sulphur halo 

And flame-flash all shone. 

From eye and from nostril 
Out gushed the pale flame, 

And from its chafed mouth the 
Churned fire-froth came. 

They are two ! they are two ! — 
They are coal-black as night, 

That now stanchly follow 
That grim Baron's flight. 

In each lull of the wild blast 
Out breaks their deep yell ; 

'T is the slot of the doomed one, 
These hounds track so well. 

Ho ! downward, still downward. 
Sheer slopeth his way : 

No let hath his progress, 
No gate bids him stay. 
8 



114 

No noise had his horse-hoof 

As onward it sped ; 
But silent it fell, as 

The foot of the dead. 

Now redder and redder 
Flares far its bright eye, 

And harsher these dark hounds 
Yell out their fierce cry. 

Sheer downward ! right downward 
Then dashed life and limb, 

As careering to hell. 
Sunk Halbert the Grim ! 



TRUE LOVE'S DIRGE. 

Some love is light, and fleets away, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Eain ; 

Some love is deep, and scorns decay, 
Ah, well-a-day ! in vain. 

Of loyal love I sing this lay, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

'T is of a knight and lady gay, 
Ah, well-a-day ! bright twain. 

He loved her, — heart loved ne'er so well, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

She was a cold and proud damsel. 
Ah, well-a-day ! and vain. 

He loved her, — O, he loved her long ! 

Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 
But she for love gave bitter wrong, 

Ah, well-a-day ! Disdain ! 



116 

It is not meet for knight like me, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

Though scoraed, love's recreant to be, 
Ah, well-a-day ! Refrain. 

That brave knight buckled to his brand, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

And fast he sought a foreign strand, 
Ah, well-a-day ! in pain. 

He vrandered wide by land and sea, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

A mirror of bright constancye. 
Ah, well-a-day ! in vain. 

He would not chide, he would not blame, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

But at each shrine he breathed her name. 
Ah, well-a-day ! Amen ! 

He would not carpe, he would not sing, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

But broke his heart with love-longing, 
Ah, well-a-day ! poor brain. 



« 



117 

He scorned to weep, he scorned to sigh, 

Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 
But like a true knight he could die, — 

Ah, well-a-day 1 life 's vain. 

The banner which that brave knight bore, 

Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 
Had scrolled on it **jFaitf) IGiJetmorC*** 

Ah, well-a-day ! again. 

That banner led the Christian van, 

Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 
Against Seljuck and Turcoman, 

Ah, well-a-day ! bright train. 

The fight was o'er, the day was done, 

Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 
But lacking was that loyal one, — 

Ah, well-a-day ! sad pain. 

They found him on the battle-field, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

With broken sword and cloven shield, 
Ah, well-a-day ! in twain. 



118 

They found him pillowed on the dead, 

Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 
The blood-soaked sod his bridal bed, 

Ah, well-a-day ! the Slain. 

On his pale brow, and paler cheek, 

Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 
The white moonshine did fall so meek, 

Ah, well-a-day ! sad strain. 

They lifted up the True and Brave, 

Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 
And bore him to his lone, cold grave, 

Ah, well-a-day ! in pain. 

They buried him on that far strand, 

Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 
His face turned towards his love's own land, 

Ah, well-a-day ! how vain. 

The wearied heart was laid at rest, 

Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 
To dream of her it liked best. 

Ah, well-a-day ! again. 



119 

They nothing said, but many a tear, 

Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 
Rained down on that knight's lowly bier. 

Ah, well-a-day ! amain. 

They nothing said, but many a sigh, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

Told how they wished like him to die, 
Ah, well-a-day ! sans stain. 

With solemn mass and orison, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

They reared to him a cross of stone. 
Ah, well-a-day ! in pain. 

And on it graved with daggers bright, 
Heigho ! the Wind and Rain ; 

fh^tvt litn a true antr rjcntle ltniflf)t> 

Ah, well-a-day ! Amen ! 

Htquicscat in pacr* 



THE DEMON LAD^. 

Again in my chamber ! 

Again at my bed ! 
With thy smile sweet as sunshine, 

And hand cold as lead ! 
I know thee, I know thee ! — 

Nay, start not, my sweet ! 
These golden robes shrank up, 

And showed me thy feet ; 
These golden robes shrank up. 

And taffety thin. 
While out crept the symbols 

Of Death and of Sin ! 

Bright, beautiful devil I 
Pass, pass from me now ! 

For the damp dew of death 
Gathers thick on my brow : 



121 

And bind up thy girdle, 

Nor beauties disclose, 
More dazzlingly white 

Than the wreath-drifted snows 
And away with thy kisses ; 

My heart waxes sick, 
As thy red lips, like worms. 

Travel over my cheek ! 

Ha ! press me no more with 

That passionless hand ! 
'T is whiter than milk, or 

The foam on the strand ; 
'T is softer than down, or 

The silken-leaved flower ; 
But colder than ice thrills 

Its touch at this hour. 
Like the finger of Death 

From cerements unrolled. 
Thy hand on my heart falls 

Dull, clammy, and cold. 

Nor bend o'er my pillow, — 

Thy raven-black hair 
O'ershadows my brow with 

A deeper despair ; 



122 

These ringlets thick falling 

Spread fire through my brain, 
And my temples are throbbing 

With madness again. 
The moonlight ! the moonlight ! 

The deep-winding bay ! 
There are two on that strand, 

And a ship far away ! 

In its silence and beauty, 

Its passion and power, 
Love breathed o'er the land. 

Like the soul of a flower. 
The billows were chiming 

On pale yellow sands ; 
And moonshine was gleaming 

On small, ivory hands. 
There were bowers by the brook's brink. 

And flowers bursting free ; 
There were hot lips to suck forth 

A lost soul from me ! 

Now, mountain and meadow. 

Frith, forest, and river. 
Are mingling with shadows, — 

Are lost to me ever. 



123 

The sunlight is fading, 

Small birds seek their nest ; 
While happy hearts, flower-like, 

Sink sinless to rest. 
But I ! — 't is no matter ; — 

Ay, kiss cheek and chin ; 
Kiss, — kiss, — thou hast won me, 

Bright, beautiful Sin ! 



ZARA. 

" A SILVERY veil of pure moonlight 
Is glancing o'er the quiet water, 
And O ! 't is beautiful and bright 
As the soft smile of Selim's daughter. 

" Sleep, moonlight ! sleep upon the wave, 
And hush to rest each rising billow. 
Then dwell within the mountain cave. 
Where this fond breast is Zara's pillow. 

'' Shine on, thou blessed moon ! brighter still, 
O, shine thus ever night and morrow ! 
For daybreak mantling o'er the hill 
But wakes my love to fear and sorrow." 

'T was thus the Spanish youth beguiled 
The rising fears of Selim's daughter ; 
And on their loves the pale moon smiled, 
Unweeting of the morrow's slaughter. 



125 

Alas ! too early rose that morn, 

On harnessed knight and fierce soldada, — 

Alas ! too soon the Moorish horn 

And tambour rang in Old Grenada. 

The dew yet bathes the dreaming flower, 
The mist yet lingers in the valley, 
When Selim and his Zegris' power 
From port and postern sternly sally. 

Marry ! it was a gallant sight 

To see the plain with armor glancing. 

As on to Alpuxara's height 

Proud Selim's chivalry were prancing. 

The knights dismount ; on foot they climb 

The rugged steeps of Alpuxara ; 

In fateful and unhappy time 

Proud Selim found his long-lost Zara. 

They sleep, — in sleep they smile and dream 
Of happy days they ne'er shall number ; 
Their lips breathe sounds, — their spirits seem 
To hold communion while they slumber. 



126 

A moment gazed the stem old Moor, 
A scant tear in his eye did gather, • 
For as he gazed, she muttered o'er 
A blessing on her cruel father. 

The hand that grasped the crooked blade 
Relaxed its gripe, then clutched it stronger ; 
The tear that that dark eye hath shed 
On the swart cheek is seen no longer. 

'T is past ! — the bloody deed is done, 
A father's hand hath sealed the slaughter ! 
Yet in Grenada many a one 
Bewails the fate of Selim's daughter. 

And many a Moorish damsel hath 

Made pilgrimage to Alpuxara ; 

And breathed her vows where Selim's wrath 

O'ertook the Spanish youth and Zara. 



OUGLOU'S ONSLAUGHT. 

A TURKISH BATTLE-SONO. 

TcHAssAN OuGLou is on ! 
Tchassan Ouglou is on ! 
And with him to JDattle 
The Faithful are gone. 

Allah, il allah ! 
The tambour is rung ; 
Into his war-saddle 
Each Spahi hath swung : — 
Now the blast of the desert 
Sweeps over the land, 
And the pale fires of heaven 
Gleam in each Damask brand. 

Allah, il allah ! 

Tchassan Ouglou is on ! 
Tchassan Ouglou is on ! 
Abroad on the winds, all 
His Horse-tails are thrown. 



128 

'T is the rush of the eagle 
Down cleaving through air, — 
'T is the bound of the lion 
When roused from his lair. 
Ha ! fiercer and wilder 
And madder by far, 
On thunders the might 
Of the Moslemite war. 
Allah, il allah ! 

Forth lash their wild horses, 
With loose-flowing rein ; 
The steel grides their flank, 
Their hoof scarce dints the plain. 
Like the mad stars of heaven, 
Now the Delis rush out ; 
O'er the thunder of cannon 
Swells proudly their shout, — 
And sheeted with foam. 
Like the surge of the sea. 
Over wreck, death, and woe rolls 
Each fierce Osmanli. 
Allah, il allah ! 

Fast forward, still forward, 
Man follows on man. 



129 

While the Horse-tails are dashing 
Afar in the van ; — 
See where yon pale crescent 
And green turban shine, 
There smite for the Prophet, 
And Othman's great line ! 

Allah, il allah ! 
The fierce war-cry is given, — 
For the flesh of the Giaour 
Shriek the vultures of heaven. 

Allah, il allah ! 

Allah, il allah ! 
How thick on the plain 
The infidels cluster, 
Like ripe, heavy grain ! 
The reaper is coming. 
The crooked sickle 's bare, 
And the shout of the Faithful 
Is rending the air. 
Bismillah ! Bismillah ! 
Each far-flashing brand 
Hath piled its red harvest 
Of death on the land ! 

Allah, il allah ! 
9 



130 

Mark, mark yon green turban 
That heaves through the fight. 
Like a tempest-tost bark 
'Mid the thunders of night ; 
See, parting before it, 
On right and on left. 
How the dark billows tumble, — 
Each saucy crest cleft ! 
Ay, horseman and footman 
Reel back in dismay, 
When the sword of stern Ouglou 
Is lifted to slay. 
Allah, il allah ! 

Allah, il allah ! 
Tchassan Ouglou is on ! 
O'er the Infidel breast 
Hath his fiery barb gone : 
The bullets rain on him. 
They fall thick as hail ; 
The lances crash round him 
Like reeds in the gale, — 
But onward, still onward. 
For God and his law, 
Through the dark strife of Death 
Bursts the gallant Pacha. 

Allah, il allah ! 



131 

In the wake of his might, 
In the path of the wind, 
Pour the sons of the Faithful, 
Careering behind ; 
And bending to battle 
O'er each high saddlebow, 
With the sword of Azrael, 
They sweep down the foe. 

Allah, il allah ! 
'T is Ouglou that cries, — 
In the breath of his nostril 
The Infidel dies ! 

Allah, il allah ! 



ELFINLAND WUD. 

AN IMITATION OP THE ANCIENT SCOTTISH ROMANTIC BALLAD. 

Erl William has muntit his gude grai stede, 
(Merrie lemis munelicht on the sea,) 

And graithit him in ane cumli weid. 

(Swa bonnilie blumis the hawthorn-tree.) 

Erl William rade, Erl William ran, — 
(Fast they ryde quha luve trewlie,) 

Quhyll the Elfinland wud that gude Erl wan — 
(Blink ower the burn, sweit may, to mee.) 

Elfinland wud is dern and dreir, 

(Merrie is the grai gowkis sang,) 
Bot ilk ane leafis quhyt as silver cleir, 

(Licht makis schoirt the road swa lang.) 



133 



It is undirneth ane braid aik tree, 

(Hey and a lo, as the leavis grow grein,) 

Thair is kythit ane bricht ladie, 

(Manie flouris blume quhilk ar nocht seen.) 

Around hir slepis the quhyte muneschyne, 

(Meik is mayden undir kell,) 
Hir lips bin lyke the blude reid wyne ; 

(The rois of flouris hes sweitest smell. ) 

•It was al bricht quhare that ladie stude, 
(Far my luve, fure ower the sea.) 

Bot dern is the lave of Elfinland wud, 

(The knicht pruvit false that ance luvit me.) 

The ladle's handis were quhyte als milk, 
(Ringis my luve wore mair nor ane.) 

Hir skin was safter nor the silk ; 

(Lilly bricht schinis my luvis halse bane.) 

Save you, save you, fayr ladie. 

(Gentil hert schawls gentil deed.) 
Standand alane undir this auld tree ; . 

(Deir till knicht is nobil steid.) 



134 



Burdalane, if ye dwell here, 

(My hert is layed upon this land.) 

I wud like to live your fere ; 

(The schippis cum sailin to the strand.) 

Nevir ane word that ladie sayd ; 

(Schortest rede hes least to mend.) 
Bot on hir harp she evir played ; 

(Thare nevir was mirth that had nocht end.) 

Gang ye eist, or fare ye wast, 

(Ilka stern blinkis blythe for thee,) 

Or tak ye the road that ye like best, 
(Al trew feeris ryde in cumpanie.) 

Erl William loutit doun full lowe ; 

(Luvis first seid bin courtesie.) 
And swung hir owir his saddil bow, 

(Ryde quha listis, ye '11 link with mee.) 

Scho flang her harp on that auld tree, 
(The wynd pruvis aye ane harpir gude.) 

And it gave out its music free ; 

(Birdis sing blythe in gay green wud.) 



135 

The harp playde on its leeful lane, 

(Land is my luvis yellow hair.) 
Quhill it has charmit stock and stane, 

(Furth by firth, deir lady fare.) 

Quhan scho was muntit him behynd, 
(Blyth be hertis quhilkis luve ilk uther.) 

Awa thai flew lyke flaucht of wind ; 

(Kin kens kin, and bairnis thair mither.) 

Nevir ane word that ladie spak ; 

(Mim be maydens men besyde.) 
Bot that stout steid did nicher and schaik ; 

(Smal things humbil hertis of pryde.) 

About his breist scho plet her hand is ; 

(Luvand be may dins quhan thai lyke.) 
Bot thay were cauld as yron bandis. 

(The winter bauld bindis sheuch and syke.) 

Your handis ar cauld, fayr ladie, sayd hee, 
(The caulder hand the trewer hairt.) 

I trembil als the lief on the tree ; 

(Licht caussis muve aid friendis to pairt. ) 



136 

Lap your mantil owir your held, 

(My luve was clad in the reid scarlett,) 

And spredd your kirtil owir my stede ; 
(Thair nevir was joie that had nae lett.) 

The ladie scho wald nocht dispute ; 

(Nocht woman is scho that laikis ane tung.) 
But caulder hir fingeris about him cruik. 

(Sum sangis ar writt, hot nevir sung.) 

This Elfinland wud will neir haif end ; 

(Hunt quha listis, daylicht for mee,) 
I wuld I culd ane Strang bow bend, 

(Al undirneth the grene wud tree.) 

Thai rade up, and they rade doun, 
(Wearilie wearis wan nicht away.) 

Erl William's heart mair cauld is grown ; 
(Hey, luve mine, quhan dawis the day ?) 

Your hand lies cauld on my briest-bane, 

(Smal hand hes my ladie fair,) 
My horss he can nocht stand his lane, 

(For cauldness of this midnicht air.) 



137 



Erl William turnit his heid about ; 

(The braid mune schinis in lift richt cleir.) 
Twa Elfin een are glentin owt, 

(My luvis een like twa sternis appere.) 

Twa brennand eyne, sua bricht and full, 

(Bonnilie blinkis my ladeis ee,) 
Flang fire flauchtis fra ane peelit skull ; 

(Sum sichts ar ugsomlyk to see.) 

Twa rawis of quhyt teeth then did say, 
(Cauld the boysteous windis sal blaw,) 

O, lang and weary is our way, 

(And donkir yet the dew maun fa'.) 

Far owir mure, and far owir fell, 

(Hark the sounding huntsmen thrang ;) 

Thorow dingle, and thorow dell, 
(Luve, come, list the merlis sang.) 

• 

Thorow fire, and thorow flude, 

(Mudy mindis rage lyk a sea ;) 
Thorow slauchtir, thorow blude, 

(A seamless shrowd weird schaipis for me !) 



138 

And to rede aricht my spell, 
Eerilie sal nicht wyndis moan, 

Quhill fleand Hevin and raikand Hell, 
Ghaist with ghaist maun wandir on. 



MIDNIGHT AND MOONSHINE. 

All earth below, all heaven above, 
In this calm hour, are filled with Love ; 
All sights, all sounds, have throbbing hearts, 
In which its blessed fountain starts, 
And gushes forth so fresh and free, 
Like a soul-thrilling melody. 

Look ! look ! the land is sheathed in light, 

And mark the winding stream, 
How, creeping round yon distant height. 

Its rippling waters gleam. 
Its waters flash through leaf and flower, — 

O, merrily they go ! 
Like living things, their voices pour 

Dim music as they flow. 
Sinless and pure they seek the sea, 
As souls pant for eternity ; — 



140 



Heaven speed their bright course till they sleep 
In the broad bosom of the deep. 

High in mid-air, on seraph wing, 
The paley moon is journeying 
In stillest path of stainless blue ; 
Keen, curious stars are peering through 
Heaven's arch this hour ; they dote on her 
With perfect love ; nor can she stir 
Within her vaulted halls a pace, 
Ere, rushing out with joyous face, 

These Godkins of the sky 
Smile, as she glides in loveliness ; 

While every heart beats high 
With passion, and breaks forth to bless 

Her loftier divinity. 

It is a smile worth worlds to win, — 
So full of love, so void of sin. 
The smile she sheds on these tall trees, 
Stout children of past centuries. 
Each little leaf with feathery light 

Is margined marvellously ; 
Moveless all droop in slumberous quiet ; 

How beautiful they be ! 
And blissful as soft infants lulled 

Upon a mother's knee. 



141 

Far down yon dell the melody 

Of a small brook is audible ; 
The shadow of a thread-like tone, — 
It murmurs over root and stone, 

Yet sings of very love its fill ; — 
And hark ! even now, how sweetly shrill 

It trolls its fairy glee, 
Skywards unto that pure, bright one ! 

O, gentle heart hath she ! 
For leaning down to earth, with pleasure. 
She lists its fond and prattling measure. 

It is indeed a silent night 
Of peace, of joy, and purest light ; — 
No angry breeze, in surly tone, 
Chides the old forest till it moan ; 
Or breaks the dreaming of the owl. 

That, warder-like, on yon gray tower, 
Feedeth his melancholy soul 

With visions of departed power ; 
And o'er the ruins Time hath sped, 
Nods sadly with his spectral head. 

And lo ! even like a giant wight 
Slumbering his battle toils away, 

The sleep-locked city, gleaming bright 
With many a dazzling ray. 



142 

Lies stretched in vastness at my feet ; 
Voiceless the chamber and the street, 

And echoless the hall ; — 
Had Death uplift his bony hand 
And smote all living on the land, 

No deeper quiet could fall. 
In this religious calm of night, 
Behold, with finger tall and bright. 
Each tapering spire points to the sky. 
In a fond, holy ecstasy ; — 
Strange monuments they be of mind, - 
Of feelings dim and undefined. 
Shaping themselves, yet not the less. 
In forms of passing loveliness. 

God ! this is a holy hour : — 
Thy breath is o'er the land ; 

1 feel it in each little flower 

Around me where I stand, — 
In all the moonshine scattered fair. 
Above, below me, everywhere, — 
In every dew-bead glistening sheen. 
In every leaf and blade of green, — 
And in this silence, grand and deep. 
Wherein thy blessed creatures sleep. 



143 



The trees send forth their shadows long 

In gambols o'er the earth, 
To chase each other's innocence 

In quiet, holy mirth ; 
O'er the glad meadows fast they throng, 

Shapes multiform and tall ; 
And lo ! for them the chaste moonbeam 

With broadest light doth fall. 
Mad phantoms all, they onward glide, — 
On swiftest wind they seem to ride 

O'er meadow, mount, and stream : 
And now, with soft and silent pace, 

They walk as in a dream. 
While each bright earth-flower hides its face 
Of blushes, in their dim embrace. 

Men say, that in this midnight hour 
The disembodied have power 
To wander as it liketh them. 
By wizard oak and fairy stream, — 

Through still and solemn places. 
And by old walls and tombs to dream, 

With pale, cold, mournful faces. 
I fear them not ; for they must be 
Spirits of kindest sympathy. 



144 

Who choose such haunts, and joy to feel 
The beauties of this calm night steal 
Like music o'er them, while they wooed 
The luxury of Solitude. 

Welcome, ye gentle spirits ! then, 
Who love and feel for earth-chained men, 
Who, in this hour, delight to dwell 
By moss-clad oak and dripping cell, — 
Who joy to haunt each age-dimmed spot. 
Which ruder natures have forgot ; 
And, in majestic solitude. 
Feel every pulse-stroke thrill of good 
To all around, below, above ; — 
Ye are the comates whom I love ! 
While, lingering in this moonshine glade, 
I dream of hopes that cannot fade ; 
And pour abroad those fantasies 
That spring from holiest sympathies 
With Nature's moods in this glad hour 
Of silence, moonshine, beauty, power. 
When the busy stir of man is gone. 
And the soul is left with its God alone ! 



THE WATER! THE WATER! 

The Water ! the Water ! 

The joyous brook for me, 
That tuneth through the quiet night 

Its ever-living glee. 
The Water ! the Water ! 

That sleepless, merry heart. 
Which gurgles on unstintedly. 

And loveth to impart 
To all around it some small measure 
Of its own most perfect pleasure. 

The Water ! the Water ! 

The gentle stream for me, 
That gushes from the old gray stone, 

Beside the alder-tree. 
The Water ! the Water ! 

That ever-bubbling spring 
10 



146 

I loved and looked on while a child, 

In deepest wondering, — 
And asked it whence it came and went, 
And when its treasures would be spent. 

The Water ! the Water ! 

The merry, wanton brook, 
That bent itself to pleasure me, 

Like mine old shepherd crook. 
The Water ! the Water ! 

That sang so sweet at noon, 
And sweeter still all night, to win 

Smiles from the pale, proud moon. 
And from the little fairy faces 
That gleam in heaven's remotest places. 

The Water ! the Water ! 

The dear and blessed thing. 
That all day fed the little flowers 

On its banks blossoming. 
The Water ! the Water ! 

That murmured in my ear 
Hymns of a saint-like purity. 

That angels well might hear ; 
And whisper in the gates of heaven, 
How meek a pilgrim had been shriven. 



147 

The Water ! the Water ! 

Where I have shed salt tears, 
In loneliness and friendliness, 

A thing of tender years. 
The Water ! the Water ! 

Where I have happy been. 
And showered upon its bosom flowers 

Culled from each meadow green, 
And idly hoped my life would be 
So crowned by love's idolatry. 

The Water ! the Water ! 

My heart yet burns to think 
How cool thy fountain sparkled forth, 

For parched lip to drink. 
The Water ! the Water ! 

Of mine own native glen ; 
The gladsome tongue I oft have heard. 

But ne'er shall hear again ; 
Though fancy fills my ear for aye 
With sounds that live so far away ! 

The Water ! the Water ! 

The mild and glassy wave, 
Upon whose broomy banks I 've longed 

To find my silent grave. 



148 

The Water ! the Water ! 

O, blest to me thou art ! 
Thus sounding in life's solitude, 

The music of my heart, 
And filling it, despite of sadness, 
With dreamings of departed gladness. 

The Water ! the Water ! 

The mournful, pensive tone, 
That whispered to my heart how soon 

This weary life was done. 
The Water ! the Water ! 

That rolled so bright and free. 
And bade me mark how beautiful 

Was its soul's purity ; 
And how it glanced to heaven its wave, 
As, wandering on, it sought its grave. 



THREE FANCIFUL SUPPOSES. 

Were I a breath of viewless wind, 

As very spirits be, 
Where would I joy at length to find 

I was no longer free ? 
O, Margaret's cheek, 
Whose blushes speak 

Love's purest sympathies, 
Would be the site. 
Where, gleaming bright. 

My prison-dome should rise ; 
I 'd live upon that rosy shore. 

And fan it with soft sighs, 
Nor other paradise explore 

Beneath the skies. 

Were I a pranksome. Elfin knight. 

Or eke the Faerye king. 
Who, when the moonshine glimmers bright, 

Loves to be wandering ; 



150 

Where would I ride, 
In all the pride 

Of Ellin chivalry, 
With each sweet sound 
Far floating round. 

Of Faerye minstrelsy ? — 
'T is o'er her neck of drifted snow, 

Her passion-breathing lip. 
Her dainty chin and noble brow, 

That I would trip. 

Were I a glossy-plumaged bird, 

A small glad voice of song, 
Where would my love-lays aye be heard, 

Where would I nestle long ? — 
In Margaret's ear. 
When none were near, 

I 'd strain my little throat. 
To sing fond lays 
In Margaret's praise, 

That could not be forgot ; 
Then on her bosom would I fall. 

And from it never part, — 
Dizzy with joy, and proud to call 

My home her heart ! 



A CAVEAT TO THE WIND. 

Sing high, sing low, thou moody wind, 

It skills not, — for thy glee 
Is ever of a fellow-kind 

With mine own fantasy. 
Go, sadly moan or madly blow 

In fetterless free-will, 
Wild spirit of the clouds ! but know 

I ride thy comrade still ; 
Loving thy humors, I can be 
Sad, wayward, wild, or mad, like thee. 

Go, and with light and noiseless wing 
Fan yonder murmuring stream, — 

Brood o'er it, as the sainted thing. 
The spirit of its dream, — 

Give to its voice a sweeter tone 
Of calm and heartfelt gladness ; 



> 



152 

Or, to those old trees, woe-begone. 
Add moan of deeper sadness, — 
It likes me still ; for I can be 
All sympathy of heart, like thee. 

Rush forth, in maddest wrath, to rouse 

The billows of the deep ; 
And, in the blustering storm, carouse 

With fiends that never weep. 
Go, tear each fluttering rag away, 

Outshriek the mariner. 
And hoarsely knell the mermaid's lay 

Of death and shipwreck drear ; — 
What reck 1, since I still dare be 
Harsh, fierce, and pitiless, like thee .'' 

I love thy storm-shout on the land, 

Thy storm-shout on the sea ; 
Though shapes of death rise on each hand. 

Dismay troops not with me. 
With iron cheek, that never showed 

The channel of a tear, 
With haughty heart, that never bowed 

Beneath a dastard fear, 
I rush with thee o'er land and sea. 
Rejoicing in thy thundering glee. 



153 

Lovest thou those cloisters, old and dim, 

Where ghosts at midnight stray, 
To pour abroad unearthly hymn, 

And fright the stars away ? 
Add to their sighs thy hollow tone 

Of saddest melancholy, — 
For I, too, love such places lone. 

And court such guests unjolly ; 
Such haunts, such mates, in sooth, to me 
Be welcome as they are to thee. 

Blow as thou wilt, blow anywhere. 

Wild spirit of the sky. 
It matters not, — earth, ocean, air, 

Still echoes to my cry, 
" I follow thee " ; for where thou art 

My spirit, too, must be, 
While each chord of this wayward heart 

Thrills to thy minstrelsy ; 
And he that feels so sure must be 
Meet comate for a shrew like thee ! 



WHAT IS GLORY? WHAT IS FAME? 

What is Glory ? What is Fame ? 
The echo of a long-lost name ; 
A breath, an idle hour's brief talk ; 
The shadow of an arrant naught ; 
A flower that blossoms for a day, 

Dying next morrow ; 
A stream that hurries on its way. 

Singing of sorrow ; 
The last drop of a bootless shower, 
Shed on a sere and leafless bower ; 
A rose, stuck in a dead man's breast, — 
This is the World's fame at the best ! 

What is Fame ? and what is Glory ? 
A dream, — a jester's lying story, 
To tickle fools withal, or be 
A theme for second infancy ; 



I 



155 

A joke scrawled on an epitaph ; 
A grin at Death's own ghastly laugli ; 
A visioning that tempts the eye, 
But mocks the touch, — nonentity ; 
A rainbow, substanceless as bright, 

Flitting for ever 
O'er hill-top to more distant height, 

Nearing us never ; 
A bubble blown by fond conceit, 
In very sooth itself to cheat ; 
The witch-fire of a frenzied brain ; 
A fortune that to lose were gain ; 
A word of praise, perchance of blame ; 
The wreck of a time-bandied name, — 
Ay, this is Glory ! — this is Fame ! 



THE SOLEMN SONG OF A RIGHTEOUS 
HEARTE. 

AFTER THE FASHION OF AN EAKLY ENGLISH POE^, 

There is a mighty Noyse of Bells 
Rushing from the turret free ; 

A solemne tale of Truthe it tells, 

O'er Land and Sea, ' 

How heartes be breaking fast, and then 
Wax whole againe. 

Poor fluttering Soule ! why tremble soe, 
To quitt Lyfe's fast decaying Tree ; 

Time wormes its core, and it must bowe 
To Fate's decree ; 

Its last branch breakes, but Thou must soare, 
For Evermore. 

Noe more thy wing shal touch grosse Earth ; 
Far under shal its shadows flee. 



157 

And al its sounds of Woe or Mirth 

Growe strange to thee. 
Thou wilt not mingle in its noyse, 

Nor court its Joies. 

Fond One ! why cling thus unto Life, 
As if its gaudes were meet for thee ; 

Surely its Follie, Bloodshed, Stryfe, 
Liked never thee ? 

This World growes madder each newe daie, 
Vice beares such sway. 

Couldst thou in Slavish artes excel, 

And crawle upon the supple knee, — 

Couldst thou each Woe-worn wretch repel, — 
This Worldes for Thee. 

Not in this Spheare Man ownes a Brother : 
Then seek another. 

Couldst thou bewraie thy Birthright soe 

As flatter Guilt's prosperitye, 
And laude Oppressiounes iron blowe, — 

This Worldes for Thee. 
Sithence to this thou wilt not bend, 

Life 's at an end. 



158 

Couldst thou spurn Vertue meanly clad, 

As if 't were spotted Infamy, 
And prayse as Good what is most Bad, — 

This Worldes for Thee. 
Sithence thou canst not will it soe. 

Poor Flutterer goe ! 

If Head with Hearte could so accord, 

In bond of perfyte Amitie, 
That Falshood raigned in Thoughte, Deed, Word. — 

This Worldes for Thee. 
But scorning guile, Truth-plighted one ! 

Thy race is run. 

Couldst thou laughe loude, when grieved hearts weep, 
And Fiendlyke probe theire Agonye, 

Rich harvest here thou soon wouldst reape, — 
This Worldes for Thee ; 

But with the Weeper thou must weepe, 
And sad watch keep. 

Couldst thou smyle swete when Wrong hath wrung 
The withers of the Poore but Prowde, 

And by the rootes pluck out the tongue 
That dare be lowde 

In Righteous cause, whate'er may be, — 
This Worldes for Tiiee. 



159 



This canst thou not ! Then, flattering thing, 

Unstained in thy puritye, 
Sweep towards heaven with tireless wing, — 

Meet Home for Thee. 
Feare not, the crashing of Lyfe's Tree, — 

God's Love guides Thee. 

And thus it is : — these solemn bells, 

Swinging in the turret free, 
And tolling forth theire sad farewells, 

O'er Land and Sea, 
Telle how Hearts breake, full fast, and then 

Growe whole againe. 



MELANCHOLYE. 

Adieu ! al vaine delightes 
Of calm and moonshine nigbles ; 
Adieu ! al pleasant shade 
That forests thicke have made ; 
Adieu ! al musick swete 

That little fountaynes poure, 
When blythe theire waters greete 

The lovesick lyly-flowre. 

Adieu ! the fragrant smel 

Of flowres in boskye dell ; 

And all the merrie notes 

That tril from smal birdes' throates ; 

Adieu ! the gladsome lighte 

Of Day, Morne, Noone, or E'en ; 
And welcome gloomy Nighte, 

When not one star is seene. 



161 

Adieu ! the deafening noyse 
Of cities, and the joyes 
Of Fashioun's sicklie birth ; 
Adieu ! al boysterous mirthe, 
Al pageant, pompe, and state, 

And every flauntynge thing 
To which the would-be-great 

Of earth in madness cUng. 

Come with me, Melancholye, 
We '11 live like eremites holie. 
In some deepe uncouthe wild 
Where sunbeame never smylde : 
Come with me, pale of hue. 

To some lone silent spot. 
Where blossom never grewe, 

Which man hath quyte forgot. 

Come, with thy thought-filled eye, 

That notes no passer by. 

And drouping solemne heade, 

Where phansyes strange are bred. 

And saddening thoughts doe brood. 

Which idly strive to borrow 

A smyle to vaile thy moode 

Of heart-abyding sorrow. 
11 



162 

Come to yon blasted mound 
Of phantom-haunted ground, 
Where spirits love to be ; 
And liste the moody glee 
Of nighte-windes as they moane, 

And the ocean's sad replye 
To the wild unhallowed tone 

Of the wandering sea-bird's cry. 

There sit with me and keep 
Vigil when al doe sleepe ; 
And when the curfeu bell 
Hath rung its mournfull knel, 
Let us together blend 

Our mutual sighes and teares, 
Or chaunt some metre penned, 

Of the joies of other yeares. 

Or in cavern hoare and damp. 
Lit by the glow-worm's lampe. 
We '11 muse on the dull theme 
Of Life's heart-sickening dreame, — 
Of Time's resistlesse powre, — 

Of Hope's deceitful lips, — 
Of Beauty's short-livde houre, — 

And Glory's dark eclipse ! 



163 

Or, wouldst thou rather chuse 
This World's leaf to peruse, 
Beneath some dripping vault 
That scornes rude Time's assaulte ; 
Whose close-ribbed arches still 

Frown in their green old age, 
And stamp an awefuU chill 

Upon that pregnant page ? 

Yes, thither let us turne, 
To this Time-shattered urne. 
And quaintly carved stone, — 
Dim wrackes of ages gone ; 
Here, on this mouldering tomb. 

We '11 con that noblest truth. 
The Flesh and Spirit's doome, — 

Dust and Immortall Youthe. 



1 AM NOT SAD. 

I AM not sad, though sadness seem 

At times to cloud my brow ; 
I cherished once a foolish dream, — 
Thank Heaven, 't is not so now ! 
Truth's sunshine broke, 
And I awoke 
To feel 't was right to bow 
To Fate's decree, and this my doom. 
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb. 

I grieve not, though a tear may fill 

This glazed and vacant eye ; 
Old thoughts will rise, do what we will, 
But soon again they die ; 
An idle gush. 
And all is hush, 
The fount is soon run dry : 
And cheerly now I meet my doom. 
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb. 



165 

I am not mad, although I see 
Things of no better mould 
Than I myself am, greedily 
In Fame's bright page enrolled, 
That they may tell 
The story well, 
What shines may not be gold. 
No, no ! content I court my doom. 
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb. 

The luck is theirs, — the loss is mine, 

And yet no loss at all ; 
The mighty ones of eldest time, 
I ask where they did fall ? 
Tell me the one 
Who e'er could shun 
Touch with Oblivion's pall .'' 
All bear with me an equal doom. 
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb. 

Brave temple and huge pyramid. 

Hill sepulchred by art. 
The barrow acre-vast where hid 
Moulders some Nimrod's heart ; 
Each monstrous birth 
Cumbers old earth, 
But acts a voiceless part. 



166 

Resolving all to mine own doom, 
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb. 

Tradition with her palsied hand, 

And purblind History, may 
Grope and guess well that in this land 
Some great one lived his day ; 
And what is this, 
\Blind hit or miss. 
But labor thrown away. 
For counterparts to mine own doom, 
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb. 

I do not peak and pine away, 
Lo ! this deep bowl I quaff; 
If sigh I do, you still must say 
It sounds more like a laugh. 
'T is not too late 
To separate 
The good seed from the chaff; 
And scoff at those who scorn my doom, 
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb. 

I spend no sigh, I shed no tear, 
Though life's first dream is gone ; 

And its bright picturings now appear 
Cold images of stone ; 



167 

I 've learned to see 

The vanity 
Of lusting to be known, 
And gladly hail my changeless doom, 
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb ! 



THE JOYS OF THE WILDERNESS. 

I HAVE a wish, and it is this: that, in some uncouth glen. 
It were my lot to find a spot unknown by selfish men ; 
Where I might be securely free, like Eremite of old, 
From Worldly guile, from Woman's wile, and Friend- 
ships brief and cold ; 
And where I might, with stern delight, enjoy the varied 

form 
Of Nature's mood, in every rude burst of the thunder- 
ing storm. 

Then would my life, lacking fierce strife, glide on in 

dreamy gladness. 
Nor would I know the cark and woe which come of 

this world's madness ; 
While in a row, like some poor show, its pageantries 

would pass. 
Without a sigh, before mine eye, as shadows o'er a 

glass : 



169 



Nonentity these shadows be, — and yet, good Lord ! 

how brave 
That knavish rout doth strut and flout, then shrink into 

the grave ! 

Tlie Wilderness breathes gentleness ; — these waters 

bubbling free, 
The gallant breeze that stirs the trees, form Heaven's 

own melody ; 
The far-stretched sky, with its bright eye, pours forth a 

tide of love 
On every thing that here doth spring, on all that glows 

above. 
But live with man, — his dark heart scan, — its paltry 

selfishness 
Will show to thee why men like me love the lone 

Wilderness ! 



A SOLEMN CONCEIT. 

Stately trees are growing, 
Lusty winds are blowing, 
And mighty rivers flowing 

On, for ever on. 
As stately forms were growing, 
As lusty spirits blowing. 
And as mighty fancies flowing 

On, for ever on ; — 
But there has been leave-taking, 
Sorrow, and heart-breaking. 
And a moan pale Echo 's making, 

For the gone, for ever gone ! 

Lovely stars are gleaming. 
Bearded lights are streaming, 
And glorious suns are beaming 
On, for ever on. 



171 

As lovely eyes were gleaming, 
As wondrous lights were streaming, 
And as glorious minds were beaming 

On, for ever on ; — 
But there has been soul-sundering, 
Wailing, and sad wondering ; 
For graves grow fat with plundering 

The gone, for ever gone ! 

We see great eagles soaring. 
We hear deep oceans roaring. 
And sparkling fountains pouring 

On, for ever on. 
As lofty minds were soaring. 
As sonorous voices roaring, 
And as sparkling wits were pouring 

On, for ever on ; — 
But pinions have been shedding. 
And voiceless darkness spreading. 
Since a measure Death 's been treading 

O'er the gone, for ever gone ! 

Every thing is sundering, 
Every one is wondering. 
And this huge globe goes thundering 
On, for ever on ; 



172 

But 'mid this weary sundering, 
Heart-breaking, and sad wondering, 
And this huge globe's rude thundering 

On, for ever on, 
I would that I were dreaming 
Where little flowers are gleaming. 
And the long green grass is streaming 

O'er the gone, for ever gone ! 



•THE EXPATRIATED. 

No bird is singing 

In cloud or on tree, 
No eye is beaming 

Glad welcome to me ; 
The forest is tuneless ; 

Its brown leaves fast fall, — 
Changed and withered, they fleet 

Like hollow friends all. 

No door is thrown open, 

No banquet is spread ; 
No hand smooths the pillow 

For the Wanderer's head ; 
But the eye of distrust 

Sternly measures his way, 
And glad are the cold lips 

That wish him — good day ! 



174 

Good day ! — I am grateful 

For such gentle prayer, 
Though scant be the cost 

Of that morsel of air. 
Will it clothe, will it feed me, 

Or rest my worn frame ? 
Good day ! wholesome diet, 

A proud heart to tame ! 

Now the sun dusks his glories 

Below the blue sea, 
And no star its splendor 

Deems worthy of me ; 
The path I must travel 

Grows dark as my fate. 
And nature, like man, can 

Wax savage in hate. 

My country ! my country ! 

Though step-dame thou be. 
Yet my heart, in its anguish, 

Cleaves fondly to thee ; 
Still in fancy it lingers 

By mountain and stream. 
And thy name is the spirit 

That rules its wild dream. 



175 

This heart loved ihee truly, — 

And, O ! it bled free, 
When it led on to gloiy 

Thy proud chivalry ; 
And, O ! it gained much from 

Thy prodigal hand, — 
The freedom to break in 

The stranger's cold land ! 



FACTS FROM FAIRY-LAND. 

"0, then, I see> Queen Mab hath been with you ! " 

WouLDST thou know of me 

Where our dwellings be ? 

'T is under this hill, 

Where the moonbeam chill 
Silvers the leaf and brightens the blade, - 

'T is under this mound 

Of greenest ground, 
That our crystal palaces are made. 

Wouldst thou know of me 

What our food may be ? 

'T is the sweetest breath 

Which the bright flower hath, 
That blossoms in wilderness afar, — 

And we sip it up. 

In a harebell cup, 
By the winking light of the tweering star. 



177 

Wouldst thou know of me 

What our drink may be ? 

'T is the freshest dew, 

And the clearest, too, 
That ever hung on leaf or flower ; 

And merry we skink 

That wholesome drink. 
Thorough the quiet of the midnight hour. 

Wouldst thou know of me 

What our pastimes be ? 

'T is the hunt and halloo. 

The dim greenwood through ; 
O, bravely we prance it with hound and horn. 

O'er moor and fell, 

And hollow dell. 
Till the notes of our Woodcraft wake the morn. 

Wouldst thou know of me 

What our garments be ? 

'T is the viewless thread 

Which the gossamers spread 

As thev float in the cool of a summer eve bright, 

And the down of the rose. 

Form doublet and hose 

For our Squires of Dames on each festal night. 
12 



178 



Would st thou know of me 

When our reveh'ies be ? 

'T is in the still night 

When the moonshine white 
Glitters in glory o'er land and sea, 

That, with nimble foot, 

To tabor and flute, 
We whirl with our loves round yon glad old tree. 



CERTAIN PLEASANT VERSES TO THE LADY 
OF MY HEART. 

The murmur of the merry brook, 
« As gushingly and free 

It wimples, with its sun-bright look, 

Far down yon sheltered lea. 
Humming to every drowsy flower 

A low, quaint lullaby, 
Speaks to my spirit, at this hour. 

Of Love and thee. 

The music of the gay, green wood, 

When every leaf and tree 
Is coaxed by winds of gentlest mood, 

To utter harmony ; 
And the small birds that answer make 

To the wind's fitful glee. 
In me most blissful visions wake, 

Of Love and thee. 



180 

The rose perks up its blushing cheek. 

So soon as it can see 
Along the eastern hills one streak ' 

Of the Sun's majesty : 
Laden with dewy gems, it gleams 

A precious freight to me, 
For each pure drop thereon meseems 

A type of thee. 

And when, abroad in summer morn, 

I hear the blythe, bold bee 
Winding aloft his tiny horn, 

(An errant knight perdy,) 
That winged hunter of rare sweets 

O'er many a far country. 
To me a lay of love repeats, 

Its subject — thee. 

And when, in midnight hour, I note 

The stars so pensively. 
In their mild beauty, cfnward float 

Through heaven's own silent sea ; 
My heart is in their voyaging 

To realms where spirits be. 
But its mate, in such wandering, 

Is ever thee ! 



181 

But O, the murmur of the brook, 

The music of the tree ; 
The rose, with its sweet, shamefaced look, 

The booming of the bee ; 
The course of each bright voyager 

In heaven's unmeasured sea, 
Would not one heart-pulse of me stir, 

Loved I not thee ! 



BENEATH A PLACID BROW. 

Beneath a placid brow 

And tear-unstained cheek, 
To bear as I do now 

A heart that well could break ; 
To stimulate a smile 

Amid the wrecks of grief, — 
To herd among the vile. 

And therein seek relief, — 
For the bitterness of thought 
Were joyance dearly bought. 

When will man learn to bear 

His heart nailed on his breast, 

With all its lines of care 

f 

In nakedness confessed ? — 
Why, in this solemn mask 
Of passion -wasted life. 



183 

Will no one dare the task, 

To speak his sorrows rife ? — 
Will no one bravely tell, 
His bosom is a hell ? 

I scorn this hated scene 

Of masking and disguise, 
Where men on men still gleam, 

With falseness in their eyes ; 
Where all is counterfeit. 

And truth hath never say ; 
Where hearts themselves do cheat, 

Concealing hope's decay, 
And, writhing at the stake, 
Themselves do liars make. 

Go, search thy heart, poor fool ! 

And mark its passions well ; 
'T were time to go to school, — 

'T were time the truth to tell, — 
'T were time this world should cast 

Its infant slough away. 
And hearts burst forth at last 

Into the light of day ; — 
'T were time all learned to be 
Fit for Eternity ! 



THE COVENANTERS' BATTLE-CHANT. 

To battle ! to battle ! 

To slaughter and strife ! 
For a sad, broken Covenant 

We barter poor life. 
The great God of Judah 

Shall smite with our hand, 
And break down the idols 

That cumber the land. 

Uplift every voice 

In prayer, and in song ; 
Remember the battle 

Is not to the strong ; — 
Lo, the Ammonites thicken ! 

And onward they come, 
To the vain noise of trumpet, 

Of cymbal, and drum. 



185 

They haste to the onslaught, 

With hagbut and spear ; 
They lust for a banquet 

That 's deathful and dear. 
Now horseman and footman 

Sweep down the hill-side : 
They come, like fierce Pharaohs, 

To die in their pride ! 

See, long plume and pennon 

Stream gay in the air ; 
They are given us for slaughter, • 

Shall God's people spare ? 
Nay, nay ; lop them off, — 

Friend, father, and son ; 
All earth is athirst till 

The good work be done. 

Brace tight every buckler, 

And lift high the sword ! 
For biting must blades be 

That fight for the Lord. 
Remember, remember, 

How Saints' blood was shed, 
As free as the rain, and 

Homes desolate made ! 



186 

Among them ! — among them ! 

Unburied bones cry ; 
Avenge us, — or, like us, 

Faith's true martyrs die. 
Hew, hew down the spoilers ! 

Slay on, and spare none : 
Then shout forth in gladness, 

Heaven's battle is won ! 



TIM THE TACKET. 

A LYRICAL BALLAD, SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY W. W. 

A BARK is lying on the sands, 
No rippling wave is sparkling near her ; 
She seems unmanned of all her hands, — 
There 's not a soul on board to steer her ! 

'T is strange to see a shipshape thing 
Upon a lonely beach thus lying, 
While mystic winds for ever sing 
Among its shrouds like spirits sighing. 

O, can it be a spectre-ship, 

Forwearied of the storm and ocean. 

That here hath ended its last trip. 

And sought repose from ceaseless motion ? 



168 

I deem amiss : for yonder, see, 

A sailor struts in dark-blue jacket, — 

A little man with face of glee, — 

His neighbors call him Tim the Tacket. 

I know him well ; the master he 

Of a small bark, — an Irish coaster ; 

His heart is like the ocean, free, 

And like the breeze his tongue 's a boaster. 

He is a father, too, I 'm told, 
Of children ten, and some say twenty ; 
But it 's no matter, he 's grown old. 
And, ten or more, he has got plenty ! 

List ! now he sings a burly stave 

Of waves and winds and shipwrecks many. 

Of flying-fish and dolphins brave, 

Of mermaids lovely but uncanny. 

Right oft, I ween, he joys to speak 

Of slim maids in the green waves dancing, 

Or singing in some lonesome creek. 

While kembing locks like sunbeams glancing. 



189 



O, he hath tales of wondrous things 
Spied in the vast and gousty ocean ; 
Of monstrous fish, whose giant springs 
Give to the seas their rocking motion ; 

And serpents huge whose rings embrace 
Some round leagues of the great Pacific ; 
And men of central Ind, sans face, 
But not on that head less terrific ! 

Lo ! he hath lit a brown cigar, 
A special, smooth-skinned, real Havanna : 
And swirling smoke he puflTs afar, — 
'T is sweet to him as desert manna ! 

Away, away the reek doth go. 

In wiry thread or heavy volume ; 

Now black, now blue, gold, gray, or snow 

In color, and in height a column ! 

His little eyes, deep-set, and hedged 
All round and round with bristles hoary, 
Do twinkle like a hawk's new-fledged, — 
Sure he hath dreams of marvellous glory ! 



190 

Well, I would rather be that wight, 
Contented, puffing, midst his tackling. 
Than star-gemmed lord or gartered knight. 
In masquerade or senate cackling. 

He suns his limbs upon the deck, 
He hears the music of the ocean ; 
He lives not on another's beck. 
He pines not after court promotion. 

He is unto himself, — he is 
A little world within another ; 
And furthermore he knoweth this. 
That all mankind to him is brother. 

He sings his songs, and smokes his weed, 
He spins his yarn of monstrous fables. 
He cracks his biscuit, and at need 
Can soundly sleep on coiled-up cables. 

Although the sea be sometimes rough, 
His bark is stout, its rudder steady. 
At other whiles 't is calm enough, 
And buxom as a gentle lady. 



191 

In sooth, too, 't is a pleasant thing, 
To sail, and feel the sea-breeze blowing 
About one's cheek, — O ! such doth bring 
Full many a free-born thought and glowing. 

For who upon the deep, deep sea 

Ere dwelt, and saw its great breast heaving,. 

But, by a kindred sympathy. 

Felt his own heart its trammels leaving ? 

The wide and wild, the strange and grand. 
Commingle with his inmost spirit ; 
He feels a riddance from the land, — 
A boundlessness he may inherit. 

Good night, thou happy, ancient man ! 
Farewell, thou mariner so jolly ! 
I pledge thee in this social can, 
Thou antipode of melancholy ! 



THE WITCHES' JOYS. 

I. 

When night winds rave 
O'er the fresh-scooped grave, 
And the dead therein that lie 
Glare upward to the sky ; 
When gibbering imps sit down, 
To feast on lord or clown. 
And tear the shroud away 
From their lithe and pallid prey ; 
Then, clustering close, how grim 
They munch each withered limb ! 
Or quarrel for dainty rare. 
The lip of lady fair, — 
The tongue of high-born dame, 
That never would defame. 
And was of scandal free 
As any mute could be ! 



193 

Or suck the tintless cheek 
Of maiden mild and meek ; 
And when in revel rout 
They kick peeled skulls about, 
And shout in maddest mirth, — 
These dull toys awed the earth ! 

O then, O then, O then. 

We hurry forth amain ; 
For with such eldritch cries 
Begin our revelries ! 

II. 

When the murderer's blanched corse 
Swings with a sighing hoarse 
From gibbet and from chain. 
As the bat sucks out his brain. 
And the owlet pecks his eyes, 
And the wild fox gnaws his thighs ; 
While the raven croaks with glee, 
Lord of the dead man's tree, 
And, rocked on that green skull. 
With sated look and dull. 
In gloomy pride looks o'er 
The waste and wildered moor, 
And dreams some other day 
Shall bring him fresher prey ; 
13 



101 

When over bog and fen. 
To lui-e wayfaring men. 
Malicious spirits trail 
A ground fire thin and pale, 
Wliich the belated wight 
Pursues the livelong night. 
Till in the treacherous gix>und 
An unmade grave is found, — 
O then, O then, O then, 
M'e hurry forth amain ; 
Ila ! ha ! his feeble cries 
Begin our revelries, 

III. 

Wlien the spirits of the North 
Hurl howling tempests forth ; 
When seas of lightning flare. 
And thunders choke the air ; 
When the ocean starts to life, 
To madness, horror, strife. 
And tlie" goodly bark breaks up. 
Like ungirded drinking-cup. 
And each stately mast is split 
In some rude thunder-fit ; 
And, like feather on the foam, 
Float shattered plank and boom 



195 

When, 'midst the tempest's roar, 

Pale listeners on the shore 

Hear the curse and shriek of men, 

As they sink and rise again 

On the gurly billow's back, 

And their strong, broad breast-bones cra;k 

On the iron-ribbed coast. 

As back to hell they 're tossed, — 

O then, O then, O then, 

We hurry forth again ! 
For amid such lusty cries 
Begin our revelries. 

IV. 

When aged parents flee 
The noble wreck to see, 
And mark their sons roll in 
Through foam and thundering din, 
All mottled black and blue, — 
Their very lips cut through 
In the agony of death. 
While drifting on their path ; 
When gentle maidens stand 
Upon the wreck-rich strand. 
And every laboring wave 
That doth their small feet lave 



196 

Gives them a ghastly lover 
To wring their white hands over, 
And tear their spray-wet hair 
In the madness of despair, — 
O then, O then, O then. 
We hurry home amain ; 
For their heart-piercing cries 
Shame our wild revelries 1 



A SABBATH SUMMER NOON. 

The calmness of this noontide hour, 

The shadow of this wood, 
The fragrance of each wilding flower, 

Are marvellously good ; 
O, here crazed spirits breathe the balm 

Of nature's solitude ! 

It is a most delicious calm 
That resteth everywhere, — 

The holiness of soul-sung psalm. 
Of felt but voiceless prayer ! 

With hearts too full to speak their bliss, 
God's creatures silent are. 

They silent are ; but not the less, 
In this most tranquil hour 



198 

Of deep, unbroken dreaminess, 
They own that Love and Power 

Which, like the softest sunshine, rests 
On every leaf and flower. 

How silent are the song-filled nests 
That crowd this drowsy tree, — 

How mute is every feathered breast 
That swelled with melody ! 

And yet bright bead-like eyes declare 
This hour is ecstasy. 

Heart forth ! as uncaged bird through air, 

And mingle in the tide 
Of blessed things, that, lacking care. 

Now full of beauty glide 
Around thee, in their angel hues 

Of joy and sinless pride. 

Here, on this green bank that o'erviews 

The far-retreating glen. 
Beneath the spreading beech-tree muse. 

On all within thy ken ; 
For lovelier scene shall never break 

On thy dimmed sight again. 



199 



Slow stealing from the tangled brake 

That skirts the distant hill, 
With noiseless hoof, two bright fawns make 

For yonder lapsing rill ; 
Meek children of the forest gloom, 

Drink on, and fear no ill ! 

And buried in the yellow broom 

That crowns the neighboring height, 

Couches a loutish shepherd groom, 
With all his flocks in sight ; 

Which dot the green braes gloriously 
With spots of living light. ' 

It is a sight that fiUeth me 

With meditative joy. 
To mark these dumb things curiously 

Crowd round their guardian hoy : 
As if they felt this Sabbath hour 

Of bliss lacked all alloy. 

I bend me towards the tiny flower. 

That underneath this tree 
Opens its little breast of sweets 

In meekest modesty. 
And breathes the eloquence of love 

In muteness. Lord ! to thee. 



200 

There is no breath of wind to move 
The flag-like leaves, that spread 

Their grateful shadow far above 
This turf-supported head ; 

All sounds are gone, — all murmurings 
With living nature wed. 

The babbling of the clear well-springs, 
The whisperings of the trees, 

And all the cheerful jargonings 
Of feathered hearts at ease. 

That whilom filled the vocal wood, 
Have hushed their minstrelsies. 

The silentness of night doth brood 
O'er this bright summer noon ; 

And nature, in her holiest mood, 
Doth all things well attune 

To joy, in the religious dreams 
Of green and leafy June. 

Far down the glen in distance gleams 
The hamlet's tapering spire. 

And, glittering in meridial beams. 
Its vane is tongued with fire ; 

And hark how sweet its silvery bell, — 
And hark the rustic choir ! 



201 

The holy sounds float up the dell 

To fill my ravished ear, 
And now the glorious anthems swell 

Of worshippers sincere, — 
Of hearts bowed in the dust, that shed 

Faith's penitential tear. 

Dear Lord ! thy shadow is forth spread 

On all mine eye can see ; 
And filled at the pure fountain-head 

Of deepest piety. 
My heart loves all created things. 

And travels home to thee. 

Around me while the sunshine flings 

A flood of mocky gold, 
My chastened spirit once more sings, 

As it was wont of old. 
That lay of gratitude which burst 

From young heart uncontrolled. 

When in the midst of nature nursed, 

Sweet influences fell 
On chidly hearts that were athirst, 

Like soft dews in the bell 
Of tender flowers, that bowed their heads, 

And breathed a fresher smell, — 



202 

So, even now this hour hath sped 
In rapturous thought o'er me. 

Feeling myself with nature wed, — 
A holy mystery, — 

A part of earth, a part of heaven, 

* 

A part, great God ! of Thee. 

Fast fade the cares of life's dull sweven. 

They perish as the weed. 
While unto me the power is given, 

A moral deep to read 
In every silent throe of mind 

External beauties breed. 



A MONODY. 



I. 

Hour after hour, 

Day after day, 
Some gentle flower 

Or leaf gives way 
Within the bower 

Of human hearts ; 
Tear after tear 

In anguish starts, 
For, green or sere. 

Some loved leaf parts 
From the arbere 

Of human hearts ; — 
The keen winds blow, 
Rain, hail, and snow 

Fall everywhere ! 
And one bv one, 



204 

As life's sands run, 

These loved things fare, 
Till plundered hearts at last are won 
To woo despair. 

II. 
Why linger on, 

Fate's mockery here, 
When each is gone. 

Heart-loved, heart-dear ? 
Stone spells to stone 

Its weary tale. 
How graves were filled, • 

How cheeks waxed pale. 
How hearts were chilled 

With biting gale, 
And life's strings thrilled 

With sorrow's wail. 
Flower follows flower 
In the heart's bower, 

To fleet away ; 
While leaf on leaf, 
Sharp grief on grief. 

Night chasing day, 
Toll as they fall, all joy is brief, 

Life but decay. 



205 

III. 
The sea-weed thrown 

By wave or wind 
On strand unknown, 

Lone grave to find, 
Methinks may own 

Of kindred more 
Than I dare claim 

On lifers bleak shore. 
Name follows name 

For evermore, 
As swift waves shame 

Slow waves before ; - 
For keen winds blow ; 
Rain, hail, and snow 

Fall everywhere. 
Till life's sad tree. 
In mockery, 

Skeletoned bare 
Of every leaf, is left to be 

Mate of despair. 

IV. 

The world is wide. 
Is rich and fair, 



206 

Its things of pride 

Flaunt everywhere ; 
But can it hide 

Its hollowness ? 
One mighty shell 

Of bitterness, 
One grand farewell 

To happiness, 
One solemn knell 

To love's caress, 
It seems to me. 
The shipless sea 

Hath bravery more 
Than this waste scene, 
Where what hath been 

Beloved of yore. 
In the heart's bower so fresh and green, 

Fades evermore ! 

V. ^ 
From all its kind. 

This wasted heart. 
This moody mind. 

Now drifts apart ! 
It longs to find 

The tideless shore, 



207 

Where rests "the wreck 

Of Heretofore, — 
The glorious wreck 

Of mental ore ; 
The great heartbreak 

Of loves no more.' 
I drift alone, 
For all are gone 

Dearest to me ; 
And hail the wave 
That to the grave 

On hurrieth me : 
Welcome, thrice welcome, then, thy wave, 

Eternitv ! 



THEY COME! THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS. 

Thfa' come ! the merry summer months of Beauty, 
Song, and Flowers ; 

They come ! the gladsome months that brhig thick 
leafiness to bowers. 

Up, up, my heart ! and walk abroad, fling cark and 
care aside, 

Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters 
glide ; 

Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal tree. 

Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tran- 
quillity. 

Tlie grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the hand. 
And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet 

and bland ; 
The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courteously. 
It stirs their blood, with kindest love, to bless and wel- 
come thee : 



I 



209 



And mark how with thine own thin locks — they now 

are silvery gray — 
That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering, " Be 

gay ! " 

There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon 

sky, 

But hath its own winged mariners to give it melody : 
Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, all gleaming 

like red gold. 
And hark ! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course 

they hold. 
God bless them all, these little ones, who, far above this 

earth, 
Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler 

mirth. 

But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound, — from yonder 

wood it came ! 
The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own 

glad name ; — 
Yes, it is he ! the hermit bird, that, apart from all his 

kind, 
'Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western 

wind ; f 

14 



210 



Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! he sings again, — his notes are void 

of art, 
But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of 

the heart. 

Good Lord ! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed 
wight like me, 

To smell again these summer flowers beneath this sum- 
mer tree ! 

To suck once more in every breath their little souls 

away, 
And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's bright 

summer day, 
When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the reckless, j 

truant boy 
Wandered through greenwoods all day long, a mighty j 

heart of joy ! 

I 'm sadder now, I have had cause ; but O ! I'm proud ^ 

to think j 

That each pure joy-fount loved of yore, I yet delight to ' 

drink ; — .j 

Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm, un- 1 

clouded sky. 
Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the days 

gone by. 



211 



When summer's loveliness and light fall round me dark 

and cold, 
I '11 bear indeed life's heaviest curse, — a heart that 

hath waxed old ! 



CHANGE SWEEPETH OVER ALL. 

Change sweepeth over all ! 

In showers leaves fall 
From the tall forest-tree ; 

On to the sea 
Majestic rivers roll. 

It is their goal. 
Each speeds to perish, in man's simple seeming, — 

Each disappears : 
One common end o'ertakes life's idle dreaming. 

Dust, darkness, tears ! 

Day hurries to its close : 

The sun, that rose 
A miracle of light, 

Yieldeth to night ; 
The skirt of one vast pall 

O'ershadows all. 



213 



Yon firmamental cresset lights forth shining, 

Heaven's highest born ! 
Droop on their thrones, and, hke pale spirits pining, 

Vanish with morn. 

O'er cities of old days, 

Dumb creatures graze ; 
Palace and pyramid 

In dust are hid ; 
Yea, the sky-searching tower 

Stands but its hour. 
Oceans their wide-stretched beds are ever shifting, 

Sea turns to shore. 
And stars and systems through dread space are drifting, 

To shine no more. 

Names perish that erst smote 

Nations remote. 
With panic, fear, or wrong ; 

Heroic song 
Grapples with time in vain ; 

On to the main 
Of dim forgetfulness for ever rolling, 

Earth's bubbles burst ; 
Time o'er the wreck of ages sternly tolling 

The last accursed. 



i 

214 ^ 



The world is waxing old, 

Heaven dull and cold ; 
Naught lacketh here a close 

Save human woes. 
Yet they too have an end, — 

Death is man's friend : 
Doomed for a while, his heart must go on breaking, 

Day after day. 
But light, love, life, — all, — all at last forsaking, 

Clay claspeth clay ! 



SONGS. 



I 



SONGS. 



O, WAE BE TO THE ORDERS. 

O, WAE be to the orders that marched my luve awa', 
And wae be to the cruel cause that gars my tears 

doun fa', 
0, wae be to the bluidy wars in Hie Germanie, 
For they hae ta'en my luve, and left a broken heart to 

me. 

The drums beat in the mornin' afore the scriech o' 
day, 

And the wee wee fifes piped loud and shrill, while yet 
the morn was gray ; 

The bonnie flags were a' unfurled, a gallant sight to 
see, 

But waes me for my sodger lad that marched to Ger- 
manie. 



218 



O, lang, lang is the travel to the bonnie Pier o' Leith, 
O, dreich it is to gang on foot wi' the snaw-drift in the 

teeth ! 
And, O, the cauld wind froze the tear that gathered in 

my e'e, 
When I gade there to see my luve embark for Ger- 

manie ! 

I looked ower the braid, blue sea, sae long as could be 
seen 

Ae wee bit sail upon the ship that my sodger lad was 
in; 

But the wind was blawin' sair and snell, and the ship 
sailed speedilie. 

And the waves and cruel wars hae twinned my win- 
some luve frae me. 

I never think o' dancin', and I downa try to sing. 

But a' the day I spier what news kind neibour bodies 

bring ; 
I sometimes knit a stocking, if knittin' it may be. 
Syne for every loop that I cast on, I am sure to let doun 

three. 

My father says I 'm in a pet, my mither jeers at me, 
And bans me for a dautit v/ean, in dorts for aye to be ; 



219 

But little weet they o' the cause that drumles sac my 

e'e: 
O, they hae nae winsome luve like mine in the wars o' 

Germanic ! 



WEARIE'S WELL. 

In a saft simmer gloamin', 

In yon dowie dell, 
It was there we twa first met 

By Wearie's cauld well, 
We sat on the brume bank, 

And looked in the burn. 
But sidelang we looked on 

Ilk ither in turn. 

The corn-craik was chirming 

His sad eerie cry. 
And the wee stars were dreaming 

Their path through the sky ; 
The burn babbled freely 

Its love to ilk flower, 
But we heard and we saw naught 

In that blessed hour. 



221 

We heard and we saw naught 

Above or around ; 
We felt that our love lived, 

And loathed idle sound. 
I gazed on your sweet face 

Till tears filled my e'e, 
And they drapt on your wee loof, 

A warld's wealth to me. 

Now the winter's snaw 's fa'ing 

On bare holm and lea ; 
And the cauld wind is strippin' 

Ilk leaf afF the tree. 
But the snaw fa's not faster, 

Nor leaf disna part 
Sae sune frae the bough, as 

Faith fades in your heart. 

, Ye 've waled out anither 

Your bridegroom to be ; 
But can his heart luve sae 

As mine luvit thee ? 
Ye '11 get biggings and mailins. 

And monie braw claes ; 
But they a' winna buy back 

The peace o' past days. 



222 

Fareweel, and for ever, 

My first luve and last, 
May thy joys be to come, — 

Mine live in the past. 
In sorrow and sadness. 

This hour fa's on me ; 
But light, as thy luve, may 

It fleet over thee ! 



SONG OF THE DANISH SEA-KING. 

Our bark is on the waters deep, our bright blade 's in 

our hand, 
Our birthright is the ocean vast, — we scorn the girdled 

land ; 
And the hollow wind is our music brave, and none can 

bolder be 
Than the hoarse-tongued tempest raving o'er a proud 

and swelling sea ! 

Our bark is dancing on the waves, its tall masts quiver- 
ing bend 

Before the gale, which hails us now with the hollo of a 
friend ; 

And its prow is sheering merrily the upcurled billow's 
foam, 

While our hearts, with throbbing gladness, cheer old 
Ocean as our home ! 



k 



224 



Our eagle-wings of might we stretch before the gallant 
wind, 

And we leave the tame and sluggish earth a dim, mean 
speck behind ; 

We shoot into the untracked deep, as earth-freed spir- 
its soar. 

Like stars of fire through boundless space, — through 
realms without a sl^ore ! 

Lords of this wide-spread wilderness of waters, we 

bound free. 
The haughty elements alone dispute our sovereignty ; 
No landmark doth our freedom let, for no law of man 

can mete 
The sky which arches o'er our head, — the waves 

which kiss our feet ! 

The warrior of the land may back the wild horse, in 

his pride ; 
But a fiercer steed we dauntless breast, — the untamed 

ocean tide ; 
And a nobler tilt our bark careers, as it quells the saucy 

wave. 
While the Herald storm peals o'er the deep the glories 

of the brave. 



225 



Hurrah ! hurrah ! the wind is up, — it bloweth fresh 

and free, 
And every cord, instinct with life, pipes loud its fearless 

glee ; 
Big swell the bosomed sails with joy, and they madly 

kiss the spray, 
As proudly, through the foaming surge, the Sea-King 

bears away ! 



I 



15 



THE CAVALIER'S SONG. 

A STEED ! a steed of matchlesse speed, 

A sword of metal keene ! 
All else to noble heartes is drosse, 

All else on earth is meane. 
The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde, 

The rowlinge of the drum, 
The clangor of the trumpet lowde. 

Be soundes from heaven that come ; 
And O ! the thundering presse of knightes 

Whenas their war cryes swell. 
May tole from heaven an angel bright, 

And rouse a fiend from hell. 

Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants, all, 

And don your helmes amaine : 
Deathe's couriers. Fame and Honor, call 

Us to the field againe. 



227 

No shrewish teares shall fill our eye 

When the sword-hilt 's in our hand, — 
Heart whole we '11 part, and no whit sighe 

For the fayrest of the land ; 
Let piping swaine, and craven wight, 

Thus weepe and puling crye, 
Our business is like men to fight, 

And hero-like to die ! 



THE MERRY GALLANT. 

The Merry Gallant girds his sword, 

And dons his helm in mickle glee ; 
He leaves behind his lady-love 
For tented fields and deeds which prove 
Stout hardiment and constancy. 

When round him rings the din of arms, — 

The notes of high-born chivalry, — 
He thinks not of his bird in bower, 
And scorns to own Love's tyrant power 
Amid the combats of the Free. 

Yet in the midnight watch, I trow. 

When cresset lights all feebly burn. 
Will hermit Fancy sometimes roam 
With eager travel back to home. 

Where smiles and tears await — return. 



229 



" Away ! away ! " he boldly sings, 

" Be thrown those thoughts which cling to me ; 
That mournful look and glistering eye, — 
That quivering lip and broken sigh ; — 

Why fill each shrine of memory ? 

" O that to-morrow's dawri would rise 

To light me on my path of glory. 
Where I may pluck from niggard fame 
Her bravest laurels, — and the name 
That long shall live in minstrel story ! 

" Then, when my thirst for fame is dead, 

Soft love may claim his wonted due ; 
But now, when levelled lances gleam, 
And chargers snort, and banners stream. 
To lady's love a long adieu ! " 



THE KNIGHT'S SONG. 

Endearing ! endearing ! 

Why so endearing 
Are those dark lustrous eyes, 

Through their silk fringes peering ? 
They love me ! they love me ! 

Deeply, sincerely ; 
And more than aught else on earth, 

I love them dearly. 

Endearing ! endearing ! 

Why so endearing 
Glows the glad, sunny smile 

On thy soft cheek appearing ? 
It brightens ! it brightens ! 

As I am nearing ; 
And 't is thus that thy fond smile 

Is ever endearing. 



231 

Endearing ! endearing ! 

Why so endearing 
Is that lute-breathing voice 

Which my rapt soul is hearing ? 
'T is singing, 't is singing 

Thy deep love for me, 
And my faithful heart echoes 

Devotion to thee. 

Endearing ! endearing I 

Why so endearing 
At each Passage of Arms 

Is the herald's bold cheering ? 
'T is then thou art kneeling 

With pure hands to Heaven, 
And each prayer of thy heart 

For my good lance is given. 

Endearing ! endearing I 

Why so endearing 
Is the fillet of silk 

That my right arm is wearing ? 
Once it veiled the bright bosom 

That beats but for me ; 
Now it circles the arm that 

Wins glory for thee ! 



THE TROOPER'S DITTY. 

Boot, boot into the stirrup, lads, 

And hand once more on rein ; 
Up, up into the saddle, lads. 

Afield we ride again ; 
One cheer, one cheer for dame or dear, 

No leisure now to sigh, 
God bless them all, — we have their prayers, 

And they our hearts, — " Good by ! " 
Off, off we ride, in reckless pride, 

As gallant troopers may. 
Who have old scores to settle, and 

Long slashing swords to pay. 

The trumpet calls, — " Trot out, trot out," — 

We cheer the stirring sound ; 
Swords forth,, my lads, — through smoke and dust 

We thunder o'er the ground. 



233 

Tramp, tramp, we go through sulphury clouds. 

That blind us while we sing, — 
Woe worth the knave who follows not 

The banner of the King ; 
But luck befall each trooper tall, 

That cleaves to saddle-tree. 
Whose long sword carves on rebel sconce 

The rights of Majesty. 

Spur on, my lads ; the trumpet sounds 

Its last and stern command, — 
" A charge ! a charge ! " — an ocean burst 

Upon a stormy strand. 
Ha ! ha ! how thickly on our casques 

Their popguns rattle shot ; 
Spur on, my lads, we '11 give it them 

As sharply as we 've got. 
Now for it : — now, bend to the work, — 

Their lines begin to shake ; 
Now, through and through them, — bloody lanes 

Our flashing sabres make ! 

" Cut one, — cut two, — first point," and then 

We '11 parry as we may ; 
On, on the knaves, and give them steel 

In bellyfuls to-day. 



234 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Church and State, 

For Country and for Crown, 
We slash away, and right and left 

Hew rogues and rebels down. 
Another cheer ! the field is clear, 

The day is all our own ; 
Done like our sires, — done like the swords 

God gives to guard the Throne ! 



HE IS GONE! HE IS GONE! 

He is gone ! he is gone ! 

Like the leaf from the tree, 
Or the down that is blown 

By the wind o'er the lea. 
He is fled, the light-hearted ! 
Yet a tear must have started 
To his eye, when he parted 

From love-stricken me ! 

He is fled ! he is fled ! 

Like a gallant so free. 
Plumed cap on his head, 

And sharp sword by his knee ; 
While his gay feathers fluttered, 
Surely something he muttered ; 
He at least must have uttered 

A farewell to me ! 



236 

He 's away ! he 's away 
To far lands o'er the sea, — 

And long is the day 
Ere home he can be ; 

But where'er his steed prances, 

Amid thronging lances, 

Sure he '11 think of the glances 
That love stole from me ! 

He is gone ! he is gone ! 

Like the leaf from the tree ; 
But his heart is of stone 

If it ne'er dream of me ! 
For I dream of him ever ; 
His buff-coat and beaver. 
And long sword, O, never 

Are absent from me ! 



THE FORESTER'S CAROL. 

Lusty Hearts ! to the wood, to the meriy greenwood, 
While the dew with strung pearls loads each blade. 

And the first blush of dawn brightly streams o'er the 
lawn, 
Like the smile of a rosy-cheeked maid. 

Our horns with wild music ring glad through each shaw, 

And our broad arrows rattle amain ; 
For the stout bows we draw to the greenwoods give 
^ law. 

And the Might is the Right once again ! 

Mark yon herds, as they brattle and brush down the 
glade, — 

Pick the fat, let the lean rascals go ; 
Under favor 't is meet that we tall men should eat, — 

Nock a shaft and strike down that proud doe ! 



238 



Well delivered, parfay ! convulsive she leaps, — 
One bound more, — then she drops on her side ; 

Our steel hath bit smart the life-strings of her heart, 
And cold now lies the green forest's pride. 

Heave her up, and away ! — should any base churl 
Dare to ask why we range in this wood, 

There 's a keen arrow yare in each broad belt to spare, 
That will answer the knave in his blood ! 

Then forward, my Hearts ! like the bold, reckles 
breeeze. 

Our life shall whirl on in mad glee ; 
The long bows we bend, to the world's latter end, 

Shall be borne by the hands of the Free ! 



MAY MORN SONG. 

The grass is wet with shining dews, 

Their silver bells hang on each tree, 
While opening flower and bursting bud 

Breathe incense forth unceasingly ; 
The mavis pipes in greenwood shaw. 

The throstle glads the spreading thorn, 
And cheerily the blithesome lark 
Salutes the rosy face of morn. 
'T is early prime ; 

And hark ! hark ! hark ! 
His merry chime 
Chirrups the lark : 
Chirrup ! chirrup ! he heralds in 
The jolly sun with matin hymn. 

Come, come, my love ! and May-dews shake 
In pailfuls from each drooping bough ; 



240 

Tliey '11 give fresh lustre to the bloom, 

That breaks upon thy young cheek now. 
O'er hill and dale, o'er waste and wood, 

Aurora's smiles are streaming free ; 
AVith earth it seems brave holiday. 
In heaven it looks high jubilee. 
And it is right. 

For mark, love, mark ! 
How bathed in light 
Chirrups the lark : 
Chirrup ! chirrup ! he upward flies, 
Like holy thoughts to cloudless skies. 

They lack all heart, who cannot feel 

The voice of heaven within them thrill. 
In summer morn, when, mounting high. 

This merry minstrel sings his fill. 
Now let us seek yon bosky dell. 

Where brightest wild-flowers choose to be, 
And where its clear stream murmurs on, 
Meet type of our love's purity ; 
No witness there. 

And o'er us, hark ! 
High in the air 
Chirrups the lark : 
Chirrup ! chirrup ! away soars he. 
Bearing to heaven my vows to thee ! 



Y 



THE BLOOM HATPI FLED THY CHEEK, MARY. 



The bloom hath fled thy cheek, Maiy, 
As spring's rath blossoms die, 

And sadness hath overshadowed now 
Thy once bright eye ; 

But look, on me the prints of grief 
Still deeper lie. 
Farewell ! 

Thy lips are pale and mute, Mary, 

Thy step is sad and slow. 
The morn of gladness hath gone by 

Thou erst did know ; 
I, too, am changed like thee, and weep 
For very woe. 

Farewell ! 
16 



242 

It seems as 't were but yesterday 

We were the happiest twain, 
When murmured sighs and joyous tears, 

Dropping like rain, 
Discoursed my love, and told how loved 

I was again. 

Farewell? 

'T was not in cold and measured phrase 

We gave our passion name ; 
Scorning such tedious eloquence, 

Our hearts' fond flame 
And long-imprisoned feelings fast 

In deep sobs came. 
Farewell ! 

Would that our love had been the love 

That merest worldlings know, 
When passion's draught to our doomed lips 

Turns utter woe, 
And our poor dream of happiness 

Vanishes so ! 

Farewell ! 

But in the wreck of all our hopes. 
There 's yet some touch of bliss, 



243 

Since fate robs. not our wretchedness 

Of this last kiss : 
Despair, and love, and madness, meet 

In this, in this. 

Farewell ! 



IN THE QUIET AND SOLEMN NIGHT. 

In the quiet and solemn night, 
When the moon is silvery bright, 
Then the screech-owl's eerie cry 
Mocks the beauties of the sky : 

Tu whit, tu whoo, 

Its wild halloo 
Doth read a drowsy homily. 

From yon old castle's chimneys tall, 
The bat on leathern sail doth fall 
In wanton- wise to skim the earth. 
And flout the mouse that gave it birth. 

Tu whit, tu whoo. 

That wild halloo 
Hath marred the little monster's mirth. 



245 

Fond lovers seek the dewy vale, 
That swimmeth in the moonshine pale , 
But maids ! beware, when in your ear 
The screech-owl screams so loud and clear 

Tu whit, tu whoo. 

Its wild halloo 
Doth speak of danger lurking near. 

It bids beware of murmured sigh, 
Of air-spun oath and wistful eye ; 
Of star that winks to conscious flower 
Through the roof of leaf-clad bower : 

Tu whit, tu whoo, 

That wild halloo 
Bids startled virtue own its power ! 



THE VOICE OF LOVE. 

When shadows o'er the landscape creep, 
And twinkling stars pale vigils keep ; 
When flower-cups all with dewdrops gleam, 
And moonshine floweth like a stream ; 

Then is the hour 
That hearts which love no longer dream, — 

Then is the hour 
That the voice of love is a spell of power ! 

When shamefaced moonbeams kiss the lake. 
And amorous leaves sweet music wake ; 
When slumber steals o'er every eye, 
And Dian's self shines drowsily ; 

Then is the hour 
That hearts which love with rapture sigh, — 

Then is the hour 
That the voice of love is a spell of power ! 



247 

When surly mastiffs stint their howl, 
And swathed in moonshine nods the owl ; 
When cottage-hearths are glimmering low, 
And warder cocks forget to crow ; 

Then is the hour 
That hearts feel passion's overflow, — 

Then is the hour 
That the voice of love is a spell of power ! 

When stilly night seems earth's vast grave, 
Nor murmur comes from wood or wave ; 
When land and sea, in wedlock bound 
By silence, sleep in bliss profound ; 

Then is the hour 
That hearts like living well-springs sound, - 

Then is the hour 
That the voice of love is a spell of power ! 



AWAY! AWAY! O, DO NOT SAY. 

Away I away ! O, do not say 

He can prove false to me : 
Let me believe but this brief day 

In his fidelity ; 
Tell me, that rivers backward flow, 
That unsunned snows like fire-brands glow, 

I may believe that lay ; 
But never can believe that he 

Is false, and fled away. 

Ill-acted part ! ill-acted part ! 

I knew his noble mind, — 
He could not break a trusting heart, 

Nor leave his love behind ; 
Tell me yon sun will cease to rise, 
Or stars at night to gem the skies, 

I may believe such lay ; 
But never can believe that he 

Is false, and fled away. 



249 

Can it be so ? O, surely no ! 

Must I perforce believe 
That he I loved and trusted so, 

Vowed only to deceive ? 
Heap coals of fire on this lone head, 
Or in pure pity strike me dead, — 

'T were kindness, on the day 
That tells me one I loved so well 

Is false, — is fled away ! 



O AGONY! KEEN AGONY. 

O AGONY ! keen agony, 

For trusting heart to find 

That vows believed were vows conceived 

As light as summer wind. 

O agony ! fierce agony, 

For loving heart to brook, 

In one brief hour, the withering power 

Of unimpassioned look. 

O agony ! deep agony. 
For heart that 's proud and high. 
To learn of fate how desolate 
It may be ere it die. 

O agony ! sharp agony. 

To find how loath to part 

With the fickleness and faithlessness 

That break a trusting heart ! 



THE SERENADE. 

Wake, lady, wake ! 

Dear heart, awake 

From slumber's light ; 
For 'neath thy bower, at this still hour, 

In harness bright. 
Lingers thme own true paramour. 

And chosen knight ! 

Wake, lady, wake ! 

Wake, lady, wake ! 

For thy loved sake. 

Each trembling star 
Smiles fi'om on high with its clear eye, 

W^hile nobler far 
Yon silvery shield lights earth and sky ; 

How good they are ! 

Wake, lady, wake ! 



252 

Rise, lady, rise ! 

Not star-filled skies 

I worship now ; 
A fairer shrine I trust is mine 

For loyal vow : 
O that the living stars would shine 

That light thy brow ! 

Rise, lady, rise ! 

Rise, lady, rise, 

Ere war's rude cries 

Fright land and sea ! 
To-morrow's light sees mail-sheathed knight. 

Even hapless me. 
Careering through the bloody fight 

Afar from thee ! 

Rise, lady, rise ! 

Mute, lady, mute ? 

I have no lute 

Nor rebeck small 
To soothe thine ear with lay sincere, 

Or madrigal ; 
With helm on head and hand on spear, 

On thee I call ! 

Mute, lady, mute ! 



253 

Mute, lady, mute 

To love's fond suit ? 

I '11 not complain, 
Since underneath thy balmy breath 

I may remain 
One brief hour more ere I seek death 

On battle-plain ! 

Mute, lady, mute ! 

Sleep, lady, sleep ! 

While watch I keep 

Till dawn of day : 
But o'er the wold now morning cold 

Shines icy gray ; 
While the plain gleams with steel and gold, 

And chargers neigh ! 

Sleep, lady, sleep ! 

Sleep, lady, sleep ! 

Nor wake to weep 

For heart-struck me : 
These trumpets knell my last farewell 

To love and thee ! 
When next they sound, 't will be to tell 
' I died for thee ! 

Sleep, lady, sleep ! 



(;OULI) LOVE IMPART. 

Could love impart, 

By nicest art, 
To speechless rocks a tongue, — 

Their theme would be. 

Beloved, of thee, — 
Thy beauty, all their song. 

And, clerklike, then. 

With sweet amen, 
Would echo fitom each hollow 

Reply all day ; 

While gentle fay. 
With merry whoop, would follow. 

Had roses sense, 
On no pretence 



255 

Would they their buds unroll ; 
For, could they speak, 
'T was from thy cheek 

Their daintiest blush they stole. 

Had lilies eyes. 

With glad surprise 
They 'd own thennselves outdone, 

When thy pure brow 

And neck of snow 
Gleamed in the morning sun. 

Could shining brooks, 

By amorous looks, 
Be taught a voice so rare, 

Then every sound, . 

That murmured round. 
Would whisper, " Thou art fair ! " 

Could winds be fraught 

With pensive thought 
At midnight's solemn hour, 

Then every wood. 

In gleeful mood. 
Would own thy beauty's power ! 



256 

And could the sky- 
Behold thine eye, 

So filled with love and light, 
In jealous haste 
Thou soon wert placed 

To star the cope of Night ! 



THE PARTING. 

O, IS it thus we part, 
And thus we say farewell, 
As if in neither heart 
Affection e'er did dwell ? 
And is it thus we sunder, 
Without a sigh or tear, 
As if it were a wonder 
We e'er held other dear ? 

We part upon the spot. 
With cold and clouded brow, 
Where first it was our lot 
To breathe love's fondest vow ! 
The vow both then did tender 
Within this hallowed shade, — 
That vow we now surrender, 
Heart-bankrupts both are made 
17 



258 

Thy hand is cold as mine, 
As lustreless thine eye ; 
Thy bosom gives no sign 
That it could ever sigh ! 
Well, well ! adieu 's soon spoken, 
'T is but a parting phrase, 
Yet said, I fear, heart-broken 
We '11 live our after days ! 

Thine eye no tear v^^ill shed, 
Mine is as proudly dry ; 
But many an aching head 
Is ours before we die ! 
From pride we both can borrow, — 
To part we both may dare, — 
But the heart-break of to-morrow, 
Nor you nor I can bear ! 



LOVE'S DIET. 

Tell me, fair maid, tell me truly, 
How should infant love be fed ; 
If with dewdrops, shed so newly 

On the bright green clover-blade ; 
Or with roses plucked in July, 
And with honey liquored ? 
O, no 1 0, no ! 
Let roses blow, 
And dew-stars to green blade cling ; 
Other fare. 
More light and rare, 
Befits that gentlest nursling. 

Feed him with the sigh that rushes 

'Twixt sweet lips, whose muteness speaks, 

With the eloquence that flushes 
All a heart's wealth o'er soft cheeks ; 



260 

Feed him with a world of blushes, 
And the glance that shuns, yet seeks : 

For 't is with food. 

So light and good, 
That the Spirit child is fed ; 

And with the tear 

Of joyous fear 
That the small Elf's liquored. 



THE MIDNIGHT WIND. 

Mournfully! O, mournfully 

This midnight wind doth sigh, 
Like some sweet, plaintive melody 

Of ages long gone by ! 
It speaks a tale of other years, — 

Of hopes that bloomed to die, — 
Of sunny smiles that set in tears, 

And loves that mouldering lie ! 

Mournfully ! O, mournfully. 

This midnight wind doth moan ! 
It stirs some chord of memory 

In each dull, heavy tone : 
The voices of the much-loved dead 

Seem floating thereupon, — 
All, all my fond heart cherished 

Ere death hath made it lone. 



262 

Mournfully ! O, mournfully 

This midnight wind doth swell, 
With its quaint, pensive minstrelsy, 

Hope's passionate farewell 
To the dreamy joys of early years. 

Ere yet griers canker fell 
On the heart's bloom, — ay ! well may tears 

Start at that parting knell ! 



ADDITIOIN^AL POEMS. 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



THE WAITHMAN'S WAIL.* 



The waithman goode of Silrerwoode, 
That bowman stout and hende, 

In donjon gloom abydes his doome ; 
God dele liim gentil ende. 

It breakes trew herte to see him sterte, 
Whenas the smaU birdes sing ; 

And then to hear his sighynges drere 
Whenas his fetters ryng. 

Of bowe and shafte he bin bereft, 

And eke of bugil home ; 
A goodlye wighte, by craftie slyghte, 

Alake ! is overborne. — Old Ballad. 



My heart is sick ! my heart is sick ! 

And sad as heart can be ; 
It pineth for the forest brook, 

And for the forest tree ; 
It pineth for all gladsome things 

That haunt the woodlands free. 



* Waithman, — hunter. 



266 

Silverwood, sweet Silverwood, 
Thy leaves be large and long ; 

And there, God wot, in summer eve, 

To list the small bird's song, 
Were med'cine to the heart that breaks. 

Like mine, in prison strong. 

The sun, in idle wantonness. 

Shines in this dungeon cold, 
But his bright glance through Silverwood 

I never shall behold ! 

1 ne'er shall see each broad leaf gleam 

Like banner-flag of gold. 

It pains me, this o'erjnastering light, 

Fast flooding from the sky. 
That streams through these black prison-bars 

In sheerest mockery, 
Recalling thoughts, by green woods bred. 

To mad me ere I die. 

Dear western wind, now blowing soft 

Upon my faded cheek. 
Thy angel whisperings seem even now 

Of Silverwood to speak ; 
Of streams and bowers that make man's heart 

As very woman's weak. 



267 

Soft western wind, with music fraught 

Of all to heart most dear ; 
Of birds that sing in greenest glade, 

Of streams that run so clear ; 
Why pour thy sweetness o'er the heart 

That wastes in dungeon drear ? 

The sunshine 's for the jocund heart. 

The breeze is for the free ; 
They be for those who bend stout bow 

Beneath the greenwood tree. 
Sun ne'er should shine, breeze never blow, 

For fettered slave like me. 

I hear the hawk's scream in the wood, 

The hayings of gaunt hound, 
The sharp sough of the feathered shaft, 

The bugle's thrilling sound ; 
I hear them ; and, O God, these limbs 

With Spanish irons bound ! 

Strike these foul fetters from my wrist. 
These shackles from my knee, 

Set this foot 'gainst an earthfast stone, 
This back 'gainst broad oak-tree ; 

Give but one span of earth for fight, 
And I once more am free ! 



268 

A single hand, a single brand, 

Against uncounted foes, 
A heart that 's withered like a leaf, 

In brooding o'er its woes, 
Are surely not such deadly odds 

For stout men to oppose. 

But no ; bound here 'midst rotting straw. 

Within this noisome cell, 
They joy to see a proud heart break, 

And ring its own sad knell ; 
They joy to hear me, Silverwood, 

Bid thee and life farewell. 

So let it be ; sweet Silverwood, 

On daylight's latest beam, 
My spirit seeks again thy glades. 

Revisits flower and stream ; 
And fleets through thee, unchanged in love. 

In this my dying dream. 



THE TROUBADOUR'S LAMENT. 

It was a gallant troubadour, 

A child of sword and song, 
That loved a gentle paramour, 
And loved her leal and long ; 
He wooed her as a knight should woo, 

And, laying lance in rest. 
In listed fields her colors flew 
O'er many a haughty crest. 
He loved her as a bard should do, 

And, taking harp in hand, 
In sweetest lays that lady's praise 
He poured o'er many a land ; 
But all in vain. 
His noblest strain 
Awoke no kind return ; 
That lady proud 
Smiled on the crowd. 
But his true love did spurn. 



270 

It was a tristful troubadour, 
Heart-broken by disdain, 
That then to France and belle amour 

Bequeathed this mournful strain, 
As riding on the yellow sand 
With many a knightly fere. 
He smote his harp with feeblest hand, 

To sing with feebler cheer : 
Adieu, proud love ! adieu, fair land ! 

Where heathen banners float. 
This broken heart can act its part, 
Can die, and be forgot. 
Alas ! too late ; 
It was its fate 
To learn, with saddest pain. 
It loved one 
Who scorned to own 
Her heart could love again. 

Fair France, farewell ! my latest breath 

Shall still be spent for thee. 
While meeting strife, I court my death 

In distant Galilee. 
My soul is bound up with the glaive 

That glitters at my thigh. 
And fixed upon the banner brave 

Now flashing to the sky. 



271 

A last adieu I well may waive 

To her I loved so well ; 
She does not care what doom I bear, 
Yet, heartless maid, farewell ! 

No bridal sheet 

For me is meet ; 
I seek the soldier's bier, 

Who, for his God, 

Sleeps on the sod, 
Unstained by woman's tear. 



WHEN I BENEATH THE COLD, RED EARTH 
AM SLEEPING. 

When I beneath the cold, red earth am sleeping, 

Life's fever o'er. 
Will there for me be any bright eye weeping 

That I 'm no more ? 
Will there be any heart still memory keeping 

Of heretofore ? 

When the great winds, through leafless forests rushing, 

Like full hearts break, 
When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully gushing, 

Sad music make ; 
Will there be one whose heart despair is crushing 

Mourn for my sake ? 

When the bright sun upon that spot is shining 
With purest ray. 



273 



And the small flowers, their buds and blossoms twining, 

Burst through that clay, — 
Will there be one still on that spot repining 

Lost hopes all day ? 

When the night shadows, with the ample sweeping 

Of her dark pall. 
The world and all its manifold creation sleeping, 

The great and small, — 
Will there be one, even at that dread hour, weeping 

For me, — for all ? 

When no star twinkles with its eye of glory, 

On that low mound ; 
And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary 

Its loneness crowned ; 
Will there be then one versed in misery's story 

Pacing it round ? 

It may be so, — but this is selfish sorrow 

To ask such meed, — 
A weakness and a wickedness to borrow, 

From hearts that bleed, 
The wailings of to-day, for what to-morrow 

Shall never need. 
18 



274 



Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling, 

Thou gentle heart ; 
And though thy bosom should with grief be swelling, 

Let no tear start ; 
It were in vain, — for Time hath long been knelling, - 

Sad one, depart ! 



SPIRITS OF LIGHT! SPIRITS OF SHADE! 

Spihits of Light ! Spirits of Shade ! 

Hark to the voice of your love-crazed maid, 

Who singeth all night so merrily, 

Under the cope of the huge elm-tree. 

The snow may fall, and the bitter wind blow, 

But still with love must her heart overflow. 

The great elm-tree is leafy and high, 

And its topmost branch wanders far up in the sky ; 

It is clothed with leaves from top to toe ; 

For it loveth to hear the wild winds blow, — 

The winds that travel so fast and free. 

Over the land, and over the sea. 

Singing of marvels continuously. 

The moon on these leaves is shining ever. 

And they dance like the waves of a gleaming river. 



276 



But oft in the night, 
When her smile shines bright, 
With the cold, cold dew they shiver. 
O, woe is me, for the suffering tree. 
And the little green leaves that shiver and dream 
In the icy moonbeam ! 
O, woe is me ! 

I would I were clad with leaves so green. 

And grew like this elm, a fair forest queen ; 

Could shoot up ten fingers like branches tall. 

Till the cold, cold dews would on me fall ; 

For to shiver is sweet when winds blow keen. 

Or hoarfrost powders the dreary scene. 

And, O, I would like that my flesh could creep 

With cold, as it was wont to do ; 

And that my heart like a flower went to sleep, 

When Winter his icy trumpet blew. 

And shook o'er the wolds and moorland fells 

His crisping beard of bright icicles. 

While his breath, as it swept adown the strath, 

Smote with death the burn as it brawled on its path, 

Stilled its tongue, and laid it forth 

In a lily-white smock from the freezing north. 

But woe, deep woe. 

It is not so. 



277 

Spirits of Light ! Spirits of Shade ! 

Hearken once more to your love-stricken maid, 

For, O, she is sad as sad may be, 

Pining all night underneath this tree, 

Yet lacking thy goodly company. 

She is left self-alone. 

While the old forests groan. 

As they hear, down rushing from the skies, 

The embattled squadrons of the air. 

Pealing o'er ridgy hills their cries 

Of battle, and of fierce despair. 

Through sunless valleys, deep and drear, 

Hark, to their trumpets' brassy blare. 

The tramp of steed, and crash of spear ! 

Nearer yet the strife sweeps on, 

And I am left thus self-alone. 

With never a guardian spirit near. 

To couch for me a generous lance. 

When the Storm-fiends madly prance 

On their steeds of cloud and flame. 

To work a gentle maiden shame, 

O, misery ! 
I die ; and yet I scorn to blame 

Inconstancy. 
All in this old wood. 
They may shed my blood. 



278 

But false to my true love 
I never can be. 

Peace, breaking heart ! it is not so, 

For sv^^eetly I hear your voices flow, — 

All your sad, soft voices flov^', 

Like the murmurs of the ocean, 

Kissed by Zephyrs into motion ; 

And when shells have found a tongue 

To sing, as they were wont to sing, 

When this noble world was young. 

And the sea formed love's bright ring, 

And hearts found hearts in every thing. 

Now the trees find apt replying 

To your music, with a sighing 

That doth witch the owl to sleep ; 

And, waving their gr^at arms to and fro. 

They feel ye walk, and their heads they bow 

In adoration deep. 

And I with very joy could now 

Like weakest infant weep, 

That hath its humor, and doth go 

With joy-wrung tears to sleep. 

And now all the leaves that are sere and dry 

Noiselessly fall, like stars from the sky ; 

They are showering down on either hand, 



279 



A brown, brown burden upon the land. 
And thus it will be with the love-stricken maid, 
That loveth the Spirits of Light and Shade, 
And whose thoughts commune with the spirits that write 
The blue book of heaven with words of light. 
And who bend down in love for her, 
From their stately domes on high, 
To teach her each bright character 

That gleameth in her eye. 
When the solemn night unrolls 
The vast map of the world of souls. 
O, ecstasy ! rapt ecstasy ! 
For a poor maiden of earth like me ; 

To have and hold 
The spirits who shine like molten gold, 

Eternally. 

Beautiful Spirits ! flee me not ; 

For this is the hour, and this is the spot, 

Where we were wont of old to spell 

The language of the star-filled sky ; 

And walk through heaven's own citadel. 

With stately step and upcast eye. 

And brows on which were deeply wrought 

The fadeless prints of glorious thought. 



280 



Ye melt fast away in the dewy chill 
O' th' moonbeam, but yield to a maiden's will ; 
Take, ere ye vanish, this guerdon fair, 
A long lock of her sun-bright hair ; 
It was shorn from temples that throbbed with pain. 
As the fearful thought wandered through the brain, 
That never again, as in days of yore, 
It might be her hap to gather lore 
From the dropping richness of liquid tones, 
That fall from the lips of spiritual ones. 
Scorn not my gift, — O, it is fair. 
As, streaming, it follows your course high in air ! 
And here is a brave and flaunting thing : — 
A jolly green garland, braided well 
With roses wild, and foxglove bell, — 
With sage, and rue, and eglantine, — 
With ivy-leaf and holly green. 
Three times it was dipped in a faery spring. 
And three times spread forth in a faery ring, 
When the dews fell thick and the moon was full ; 
And three times it clipped a dead man's skull, 
And three times it lay pillowed under this cheek. 
And lips that would, but could not speak. 
Where its bloom was preserved, by tears freshly shed. 
From a bursting heart's fond fountain-head. 
Take these gifts, then, ere ye go. 



281 

Or my heart will break with its weight of woe, 

O, misery ! 
To love, and yet to be slighted so, 

Sad misery. 

Spirits of Light ! Spirits of Shade ! 

Once more thus prays your love-stricken maid ; 

Dig out, and spread in the white moonshine 

A goodly couch for these limbs of mine ; 

Fast by the roots of this stately tree. 

And three fathoms deep, that couch must be. 

And lightly strew o'er her the withered leaf; 

Meet shroud for maiden mild 't will prove ; 

And as it falls it will lull her grief, 

With gentlest rustlings, breathing love. 

Then choose a turf that is wondrous light, 

And lap it softly o'er this breast ; 

And charge the dew-drops, large and bright. 

On its green grass for ever to rest. 

So that, like a queen, clad in gems, she may lie. 

Right holily. 
With hands crossed in prayer, gazing up to the sky, 

Tranquilly, 

Eternally. 



THE CRUSADER'S FAREWELL. 

The banners rustle in the breeze, 

The angry trumpets swell ; 
They call me, lady, from thy arms, 

They bid me sigh farewell ! 

They call me to a heathen land, 

To quell a heathen foe ; 
To leave love's blandishments, and court 

Rude dangers, strife, and woe. 

Yet deem not, lady, though afar 

It be my hap to roam. 
That this right loyal heart can stray 

From love, from thee, and home. 

No ! in the tumult of the fight, 

'Midst Salem's chivalrie. 
The thought that arms this hand with death 

Shall be the thought of thee. 



THE MIDNIGHT LAMP. 

Thou pale and sickly lamp, 

Now glimmering like the glow-worm of the swamp, 

Shine on, I pray thee, for another hour. 

And shed thy wan and feeble lustre o'er 

This precious volume of forgotten lore 

My eyes devour. 

Shine on, I pray thee, but some little while ; 

Soon will the morning's ruddy smile 

Peep through the casement, like a well-known guest. 

And give thee needful rest. 

Even now the gray owl seeks his nest ; 

And in the farm-yards lusty cocks begin 

To flap their wings, and, with a rousing din, 

Cheer on the lagging morn. 

Right soon the careful churle will go 

To view his ripening corn ; 



284 

And up, and up, in a merry row, 

A thousand many-voiced birds will spring, 

And in one general chorus sing 

Their matins to the skies. 

Then live some little while, poor sickening light, 

And glad my aching eyes ; 

Thou wilt not die until the morrow bright 

Has seen thy exequies. 

Thou wilt not quit me like a thankless one, 

Who, when grief closes with the fainting heart. 

Doth shape his leave. 

I pray thee tarry, then. Alas ! thou 'rt gone. 

Pity it is that in this mood we part. 



COME DOWN, YE SPIRITS ! 

Come down, ye Spirits ! in your might, come down I 

Come down, ye Spirits of this midnight hour ! 

Come down in all your dim sublimity 

And majesty of terror ! How I joy 

To meet you in your own dark territories, 

And hold mysterious converse in a tongue 

That hath quite perished among the sons 

Of fallen man ! Ye Spirits that do roam 

With unconfined footsteps o'er the paths 

Of measureless eternity, — ye who skim 

The bosomed cloud, or pace with hasty step 

The earth's green surface, and its every spot, 

Though ne'er so lone, deserted, and profound, 

Repeople with strange sounds and voices sweet, 

Which circle round, even when all else is still, 

And breed in vulgar breasts a nameless dread 

And awe inexplicable, which bids the flesh 



286 

To creep, as if its every fibre were 
A many-footed and a living thing, 
Conne down ! conne down ! 

I hear ye come ! I hear your sounding wings 
Beat the impassive air with mighty strokes. 
And in the flickering moonshine I can see 
Your shadowy limbs, descending like a mist 
Of fleecy whiteness, on the slumbering earth. 
And now I hear the mingled harmonies 
Of all your voices fill the vaulted sky. 
Ye call upon me, — and my soul is glad 
To meet you on your pilgrimage, and join 
Its feeble echoes to your mighty song. 



DING DONG! 

Ding dong ! ding dong ! 
The church bells chime 
At early prime, — 
A solemn stave, — 
Ding dong ! ding dong ! 
O'er the lovers' grave. 

•Ding dong ! ding dong ! 
The slow sounds weep, 
And cadence keep 
With the wail of woe, — 
Ding dong ! ding dong ! 
O'er the grave below. 

Ding dong! ding dong! 
Strew garlands round 



288 9 

The holy ground 
Where twin hearts sleep. 
Ding dong ! ding dong ! 
And two friends weep. 

Ding dong ! ding dong ! 
The church bells play 
At close of day, 
With hollow tone. 
Ding dong ! ding dong ! 
They ever moan. 

Ding dong ! ding dong ! 
Cold death hath laid 
In earthly bed 
Two hearts alone. 
Ding dong ! ding dong ! 
And made them one. 

Ding dong ! ding dong! 
The church bells loom 
Above the tomb 
Where true loves meet. 
Ding dong! ding dong ! 
How sad and sweet ! 



CLERKE RICHARD AND MAID MARGARET. 



" A man must nedes love maugre his hed, 
He may not fleen it though he should be ded." 

Ghaucee. 



There were two lovers who loved each other 
For many years, till hate did start, 
And yet they never quite could smother 
The former loye that warmed their heart ; 
And both did love, and both did hate, 
Till both fulfilled the will of fate. 

Years after, and the maid did marry 
One that her heart had ne'er approved ; 
Nor longer could Gierke Richard tarry 
Where he had lost all that he loved. 
To foreign lands he reckless went 
To nourish love, hate, discontent. 
19 



290 • 

A word — an idle" word of folly — 

Had spilled their love when it was young, 

And hatred, grief, and melancholy. 

In either heart is idly sprung ; 

And yet they loved, — and hate did wane, 

And much they wished to meet again. 

Of Richard still is Margaret dreaming ; 
His image lingered in her breast ; 
And oft at midnight, to her seeming, 
Her former lover stood confest ; 
And shedding on her bosom tears. 
The bitter wrecks of happier years. 

Where'er he went, by land or ocean. 
Still Richard sees dame Margaret there ; 
And every throb and kind emotion 
His bosom knew were felt for her. 
And never new love hath he cherished ; 
The power to love with first love perished. 

Homeward is Gierke Richard sailing. 
An altered man from him of old. 
His hate had changed to bitter wailing, 
And love resumed its wonted hold 
Upon his heart, which yearned to see 
The haunts and loves of infancy. 



291 

He knew her faithless, nathless, ever ; 
He loved her, though no more his own ; 
Nor could he proudly now dissever 
The chain that round his heart was thrown. 
He loved her without hope, yet true. 
And sought her but to say adieu. 

For even in parting there is pleasure, 
A bitter joy that ringg the soul ; 
And there is grief surpassing measure. 
That will not bide nor brook control ; 
And yet a formal fond-leave taking 
Is wished for by a heart nigh breaking. 

O, there is something in the feeling, 
And trembling falter of the hand, 
And something in the tear down stealing, 
And voice so broken and so bland, 
And something in the word farewell. 
That worketh like a powerful spell ! 

These lovers met, and never parted ; 

They met as lovers wont to do 

Who meet when both are broken-hearted. 

To breathe a last and long adieu. 

Pale Margaret wept. Gierke Richard sighed ; 

And, folded in each other's arms, they died. 



292 

Yes, they did die ere word was spoken ; 
Surprise, grief-love, had chained their tongue ; 
And now that hatred was ywroken, 
A wondrous joy in them had sprung. 
And then despair froze either heart, 
Which lived to meet, — but died to part. 

Gierke Richard he was -buried low 

In fair Linlithgow ; and his love 

Was laid beside him there ; and lo, 

A bonnie tree did grow above 

Their double grave, and it doth flourish 

Green o'er the spot where love did perish. 



LORD ARCHIBALD. 



A BALLAD. 



O, SAFTLiE, saftlie laie him doun, and bap upo' his 

heid 
The cauld reid erd ful lichtlie feris, this is a knichtlie 

rede ; 
And pight a carvit croce of stane abune quhare he dois 

lye, 

Syne it was for the halie rude Lord Archibald did die. 

Its saftlie, saftlie have thay layd Lord Archibald in graif, 
And its dowie, dowie owre his bouk thair plumis and 

banneris waif; 
And its lichtlie, lichtlie doe thay hap the red erth on 

his heid ; 
And waefil was ilk knichtly fere to luik upon the deid. 



294 



Thay layd him doun wi' sighe and sab, and they layd 

him doun wi' tearis ; 
And nou abune the Olyve wuddis the ice -cauld mune 

apperis ; 
Quhyl thai muntit on thayr stedis amayne a sorrow- 

. and cumpanie, 
And be the munelicht forthy thai begin a lang jornie. 

Awa thai rade, away thai rade, and the wynd souchit 

eerie by, 
And quhiskit afF ilk heavie tere quhilk gatherit in thair 

eye; 
For weil thay luvit Lord Archibald as knichtis suld luve 

thair feris ; 
But littil thai affect Syr Hew, quha now thair fealtie 

bearis. 

Its thai have spurrit, and egre spurrit, and thair stedes 

ar al a fome, 
And nevir a word frae anie lip of thir silent knichtis 

hes come ; 
And still they spurrit and pukit on, til a lonesum lodge 

they wan. 
Then voydit thae thair saddilis al, and til the yett thay 

ran. 



295 



Nae licht is schinand in the lodge, and nae portir keepis 

the dore ; 
Nae warder strade, wi lustie spere, that dreirie lodge 

before ; 
Nae harp is heard inurth the hall, and nae sang frae 

ladie braive, 
But al was quiet as Ermites houfF, and stylliche as the 

grave. 

Swith pacit thai in be twa and twa, ilk wi his outdrawn 

swerd. 
And thai gang throu vaultit passages, albeit nae sound 

thay heard, 
Bot and it was the heavy clamp quhilk thair fit rang on 

the flore, 
Til that thay stude, ilk knicht of them, fornentes the 

grit hall dore. 

Now entir thou, the bauld Syr Hew, for treason do we 

feare ; 
Now entir first, as Captaine thou, of your brithern 

knichtis sae dier ; 
For syne the gude Lord Archibald was layd aneth the 

stane, 
Our manly ke courage has yfled, and al our hertis have 

gane. 



296 



The dark Syr Hew gade on before, and ane yreful 

man was he : 
" O, schame upon your manheidis al, and dishonour on 

ye be; 
Quhat fleyis ye sua that nane may daur to threuw this 

chalmer lok ? " 
Then wi' his iron gauntlet he that aiken dore has 

broke. 

'' Come in, Syr Hew ; come in, Syr Hew," a voice 

cry it fra within ; 
" Come in, Syr Hew, my buirdly bairn, quhilk are sua 

wicht and grim. 
But nevir nane sal entir here hot an yoursel alane ; 
Now welcum blythe to dark Syr Hew in this puir lodge 

of stane." 

Ilk knicht did hear the lonsum voyce, but the speiker 

nane did see. 
And dark Syr Hew waxit deadlie pale, quhyl the mist 

cam owre his ee. 
" Now turn wi' me, my merrie men al, to hald us on 

our way. 
For in this ugsum lodge this nicht nae pilgrimer may 

stay." 



297 



" Come back, Syr Hew, my knicht of grace, and come 

hither my trusty fere ; 
For thou hast wan a gudely fee, though nae lerges ye 

mote spere ; 
O, three woundis were on your britheris face, and three 

abune his knee ; 
But the deepest wound was throu his hert, and that was 

gi'en be thee." 

Ilk ane has heard the lonesum voyce, for it was schil 

and hie ; 
Ilk ane has heard its eerie skreich as it gaed souning 

by; 
Yet mervailous dul that lodge dois seem, and hot anie 

bruit or din ; 
Nae Hand wicht dois herbour here but an that voyce 

within. 

And everie knicht has turnit him round to leave that 
hauntit ha', 

And muntit on his swelterand stede, and pricket richt 
sune awa' ; 

And quhan this gallant cumpanye auld Askelon had 
nearit. 

The wan mune had gane fra the lift, and the grai day- 
light apperit. 



298 



Then did they count thair numberis, and thay countit 

wyse and true, 
And everilk ane was thair convenit hot and the dark 

Syr Hew ; 
But in the press his horse was kythit wi' ane saddil 

toom and bare ; 
Och and alace, its maister sure liggis in som lanelie 

lair. 

Back hae thay ridden league and myl, but nevir Syr 

Hew thai see ; 
Back hae thay ridden league and myl til quhare that 

lodge suld be ; 
Och and alace, nae lodge is thair, nouthir of stane nor 

wud, 
But quhair it was lay the dark Syr Hew amid thick 

clotterit blude. 

His lyre was wan, his teeth were clenchit, and his eyne 

did open stare. 
And wonderouslie lyke stiffened cordis stude up his 

coal-black hair, 
And his hand was glewit until the haft of his swerd sue 

scharp and trew, 
Bot the blade was broke, and on the grund it lay in 

pieces two. 



299 



He streiket was upon the garse, and it was red of 

blee, 
Wi' the drappyng of the ruddie blude that trinklit doun 

his knee ; 
And his brunie bricht was dintit sair, and heart in 

pieces ten, 
O, nevir was a knicht sae hackit by armis of mortal 

men. 

Thay sayit to raise him, hot alace, thai culd not muve 

a limm ; 
But heavie as the lead he lay, that Captaine dark and 

brym; 
And his eye was luik, and fierslie fell, and his hand 

was rased a lite, 
Albeit no lyf was in the corps of that cauld paly 

knighte. 

Then did thay leave him on that spot to rot and fal 

away. 
And thay put na stane upon his heid, and on his corps 

nae clay, 
For thay had lerit in ferly wise that hindernicht I rede, 
That dark Syr Hew, by felon means, did make his 

brither bleed. 



AND HAVE I GAZED? 

And have I gazed on this bright form 
While it was fast decaying ? 
And have I looked on these pale lips 
While ghastly death and woman's love 
Thereon with smiles were playing ? 
And do I see that lustrous eye 
Now quenched in hopeless night ? 
And was that feebly-murmured sigh 
Thy spirit's heavenward flight ? 

A moment since that eye was bright, 

A moment since it beamed on me, 

And now that lovely orb of light 

Is fixed on dull vacuity ; 

That bosom throbbed, that cheek was warm, 

And in that round and polished arm 

The thin, blue veins were filled with life ; 

Now motionless and pale they lie ; 



301 

Sad, beauteous wrecks of that stern strife 
In which a soul escaped on high ! 

Can I forget thy sad, sweet smile. 

Thy last, thy long, impassioned look ? 

Can I forget the last farewell 

It then so fondly took ? 

O, no ! — methinks thy lips still seem 

That smile of deepest love to beam, 

And these eyes, that now calmly sleep 

Beneath their half-closed, thin, transparent covers. 

Have all the lustre in their slumber deep 

They had in life, and proud dominion keep 

With light and sunshine over hearts and lovers. 

Vain thought ! Imagination's hollow trick 

To wean the heart from brooding o'er its sorrow, 

Away ! Death's blighting dews have fallen thick 

On that dear maiden's pale and bloodless cheek. 

She smiled to-day ; some gentle words did speak, 

But nor one smile nor syllable will break 

The silence of to-morrow ! 

Feast, feast mine eyes on happiness forelore, 
Banquet on loveliness that hath not died, 
A beauty slumbers there as heretofore, 
A soul made to be deified. 



302 



What though the rose, like coward base, hath fled 
From this cold cheek ! the lily still is there ; 
And mark how its pure white is softly spread, 
Where not one vagrant rose shall dare 
Again to blossom on this maiden's cheek, 
Or its bright innocence with shame to streak. 



SHE IS NOT DEAD. 

She is not dead, — O, do not say she 's dead ! 

Good friends, she lives ! what though the rose hath fled 

From her sweet face, doth not the lily there 

As beautiful a form and semblance bear ? 

Good friends, I say she lives ! her beauty lives ! 

And death destroys all loveliness of hue ; 

And were she dead, that lustre life but gives, 

From her, methinks, would have evanished too. 

Good friends, join with me, — do but give me space 
To feast upon the beauties of this face. 
She lives in death, she triumphs in the tomb, 
And, like a grave's flower, springs in fresher bloom 
The nearer it is planted to the dead ! 
Raise, raise a little more her drooping head ; 
Her bosom heaves not, — 't is like marble, white, 
And, like it, cold, But mark how exquisite 



304 



And finely fashioned is this pale, stiff arm 
Which sleeps upon it ; touch it, it will not harm. 
No, not one finger moves ; they 're locked in sleep, 
And very cold withal ; pray do not weep, 
Else I would weep too, that I could not break 
Her pleasant slumbers for your pity's sake. 

Good friends, I pray withdraw that veil once more, 
And say, is she not lovely as before ; 
Hath not this brow, this cheek, this neck, this arm, 
And this fair body, all some goodly charm 
Hovering around them, though the soul is gone 
On some far pilgrimage from this bright one ? 
Men say this maiden loved me, — simple me, 
Even from the cradle and sweet infancy, 
Till we had learned speech to speak our loves 
As others do, by streams and shaded groves ; 
But that is false in part, for never word 
Of love from either lip by us was heard ; 
The tongue is false and cogging, but the eye. 
The vanishing, rosy smile, speak faithfully. 
Yes, Love beneath these cold lids did repair. 
As to a crystal palace, there to blend 
His essence with the lights they did defend ; 
And when they oped their portals, what a light 
Poured from the worlds they hid ! Two bright. 



305 



All-radiant worlds, — two stars of living fire, 
Having joint sway and majesty entire 
Within their fair domains and beauteous spheres, 
And gemmed with diamonds like to dropping tears. 
And Love was there enshrined, and laughed through 
The pensive glories of these eyes so blue. 



20 



SWEET EARLSBURN, BLITHE EARLSBURN. 

Sweet Earlsburn, blithe Earlsburn, 

Mine own, my native stream, 
My heart grows young again, while thus 

On thy green banks I dream. 
Yes, dream ! in sooth I can no more. 

For as thy murmurs roll. 
They wake the ancient melodies 

That stirred my infant soul. 

I 've told thee, one by one, the thoughts — 

Strange, shapeless forms were they — 
That hung around me fearfully 

In childhood's dreamy day. 
And still thy mystic music spake, 

Dimly articulate. 
Yielding meet answer to the dreams 

That shadowed forth my fate. 



307 

I Ve wept by thee, a sorrowing child ; 

I 've sported, mad with glee ; 
And still thou wert the only one 

That seemed to care for me ; 
For in whatever mood I came 

To wander by thy brim, 
Thy murmurs were most musical, 

Soul-soothing as a hymn. 

I 've wandered far in other lands. 

And mixed with stranger men, 
But still my heart untravelled sought 

Repose within thy glen. 
The pictures of my memory 

Were fresh as they were limned, 
Nor change of scene, nor lapse of years, 

Their lustre ever dimmed. 



BEGONE, BEGONE, THOU TRUANT TEAR. 

Begone, begone, thou truant tear, 

That trembles on my cheek, 
And far away be borne the sigh 

That more than words can speak. 

And cease, my merry harp, to wake 

The song of former days, 
And perish all the minstrel lyre 

That framed these happy lays. 

She loves me not who woke these strains, 
Then wherefore should they be ? 

True, she doth smile as she was wont, 
But doth she smile on^me .'' 

Her neck with kindly arch ne'er bends 

When listening to my song. 
Nor do her passion-moving lips 

The trembling notes prolong. 



309 

Time was, indeed, when she would hang 

Enamoured on my theme ; 
But ah ! that happy time hath fled, 

And vanished like a dream. 

Peace, thou proud heart, and prate no more ! 

Thy sun of joy hath set. 
And dark and starless is the sky 

The troubadour has met. 



O, BABBLE NOT TO ME, GRAY EILD. 

O, BABBLE not to me, Gray Eild, 

Of days and years misspent, 
Unless thou canst again restore 

Youth's scenes of merriment. 

Canst thou recall to me the heart 

That bounded sorrow-free, 
Or wake to life the lovely one 

Who stole that heart from me ? 

Canst thou by magic art compel 

The shrouded dead to rise, 
And all the friends of early years 

Again to glad my eyes ? 

Canst thou renew Hope's flattering dream, 

That promised joys in store. 
Or bid me taste again those few, 

Alas ! that are no more ? 



311 

Then babble not to me, Gray Eild, 
Of days and years misspent, 

Unless thou canst again restore 
Youth's dreams of sweet content. 



SONNET. — THE PATRIOT'S DEATH. 

His eye did lose its lustre for a space, 

And a bright color mantled o'er his face ; 

His lips did tremulous move, as if to speak, 

But no words came. On his brow did break 

The heavy and cold dew of coming death ; 

And thick and difficult had grown his breath. 

A moment's space, it was no more, for soon 

Calmness and sunshine did again illume 

His stern-resolved features, and a glow 

Of deep but bridled wrath sat on his brow ; 

But it frowned not, nor did his piercing eye 

Speak aught that wronged his proud heart's privacy . 

Fear did not there abide, nor yet did rage 

Gleam in its fire. Far nobler moods assuage 

Its potent brilliance and restrain its ire ; 

It nothing knew but the brave patriot's fire, 



313 



Who staketh life to grasp at liberty, 
And dies, rejoicing that he has lived free, 
Well knowing that his death to other men 
Will be a gathering call, — a watchword, when 
The brave on freedom look in after times. 



SONNET.— PALE DAUGHTER OF THE NIGHT 

O THOU most beautiful and meek-eyed virgin, 
Pale daughter of the night, how tempest-tost 
And wildered in these thickening clouds thou art, 
Yet smiling ever with so sweet a face 
Of love around thee, that in truth, methinks. 
Even at these clouds thou canst not take offence, 
Knowing thy glory and majestic form 
Cannot be sullied ; and the innocent, 
Even like to thee, with undiminished beam. 
Burst through the clouds of envious calumny. 
To shame the tongues, and give the lie to thoughts, 
Having no saintlike charity ! O, yes, like thee. 
Thus shine on darkness with forgiving look. 
For Innocence and Mercy are twin-born ! 



SONNET. — THE HAND'S WILD GRASP. 

The hand's wild grasp, the dark flash of the eye, 
Like the troubled gleam of a winter's sky, 
The bosom's bitter throb, the half-choked sigh, 
When the parting hour is hurrying nigh, 

Are known but to those who love. 
Sad is that fateful hour, and pale the cheek. 
And fain the tongue would, but it cannot, speak, 

And the cold lips will not move. 

O, could the eyes find tears kind hope hath sprung. 

And could the lips but syllable a sound. 

Albeit to wail, the heart with passion wrung 

Would to its prisoned feeling thus give vent ; 

But in an icy circle they are bound. 

And when that breaks, the heart's last chord is rent ! 



SONNET. — SILVERY HAIRS. 

Ha ! on my brow, what straggling, silvery hairs 

Be ye who curl and mingle in the throng 

Of a more youthful race .? Beshrew my heart ! 

Ye have a frosty aspect right severe. 

And come to babble nonsense of the times 

That once have been, and of the days that speed 

With noiseless pinions o'er me, — of the grave 

That hungers for me, and impatiently 

Awaits my coming. Softly now, fair sirs, 

Emblems of frail mortality ; in sooth, 

Are ye the fruits of time, or those chance weeds 

That sorrow's sullen flood hath left to mock 

The broken heart that it hath desolated. 

And killed each bud of hope that blossomed there ? 



LADY MARGARET. 

I LAY within the chamber lone 
Where the Lady Margaret died ; 

And wildly there the midnight wind 
Like hapless spirit sighed. 

I mused upon that peerless One, 

So beautiful of blee ; 
And marvelled much of her sad death's 

Time-hallowed mystery : 
For as a rainbow-tinted cloud, 

Smote by a gentle wind, 
Sails o'er the deep, slow-paced and proud, 

Yet leaves no trace behind ; 
Nor can conjecture index true 

Where one bright shadow lay. 
Till all has melted from the view. 

In nothingness away ; 



318 

So did that lady vanish quite, 
In her sad latter day ! 

It is a hundred years agone 

Since living limb did rest 
Within that chamber's chilling gloom, 

And rose a living guest ! 
But many a brave and stately corpse 

Of lord and lady tall 
Have here lain cold and motionless 

Ere their proud funeral : 
For no sound or sight, however strange. 

Can lifeless flesh appall. 
But ancient crones have noted well 

Of each corpse that lay there, 
That writhen was each ghastly limb. 
The eyelid opened wide, and grim 

Each cold, dead eye did glare. 

It is a hundred years agone. 

Even on this very night. 
Since, in this unsunned room, and lone. 

Reposed that lady bright, — 
A miracle of loveliness, — 

A very beam of light. 
Blithe dawns the morn, her bridal morn. 

And merry minstrels play ; 



319 

The brisk bridegroom, and all his kin, 
Came trooping with a joyous din, 

In seemliest array. 
The bridegroom came, but ah ! the bride 

Was missing and away ! 
And of that gentle lady's fate 

None wot of till this day ! 
And, since that night, all tenantless 

Of life hath been her room ; 
Till even I did madly break 

Upon its sacred gloom. 

It was a dull and eerie night 

Of wind and bitter sleet, 
When first that tomb-like chamber rung 

With the echoes of my feet ; 
And on its narrow casements hard 

The hail and rain did beat. 
While through each crazed and time-worn chink 

The hollow wind did moan. 
As if a hundred harps were strung 

Within that chamber lone. 
And every minstrel there had been 

Some disembodied one ! 

But it is a lofty chamber. 
And passing rich withal 



320 

When on its gilded mouldings huge 

The quivering moonbeams fall. 
And ever and anon, in sooth, 

Even on that stormy night. 
Would some pale, tempest-shattered ray 
Through the dim windows find its way, — 

A very thread of light, — 
To glimmer on the needlecraft 

And curious tapestry 
Which moulder' on the walls, — brave scrolls 

Of dim antiquitye. 
Embodying many a quaint device 

Of love and chivalrye. 

O, it is a lofty chamber ! 

But dull it is to see. 
In the dead pause of the deep midnight, 

When the fagots dying be, 
And naught but embers red 

Throw round a dubious gleam. 
Like the indistinct forthshadowings 

Of a sad and unquiet dream. 
Then suddenly to wake from sleep. 

To gaze round that dim room. 
We 're sure to feel as one whose pulse 

Again beats in the tomb, 



321 



Swelling with idle life and strength 
Within its stifling gloom. 

'T was even so that I awoke 

(Sure awake I could not be), 
Though, with the lifelikeness of waking truths 

Were all things clothed to me. 
'T was in terror I awoke 

Within that chamber dim ; 
The sweat-drop burst on my cold brow, 

Dull horror numbed each limb. 
In agony my temples beat, 

Life only throbbed there ; 
And creeping cold, like living things, 

Stood up each clammy hair. 
It seemed as if a spell from hell 

Were drugged deep with the air ; 
Yet wherefore should I fear 

To me was all unknown ; 
For that chamber was, as heretofore, 

Dim, desolate, and lone. 
And I heard the angry winter's wind 

Still shrilly whistling by ; 
I heard it stir the leafless trees, 
And heard their faint reply. 
21 



3-22 

AVhile the ticking clock, right audibly, 

Did note tinie's passing sigh, 
And, like some dusky banner broad, 

Loud flapping in the breeze. 
The faded arras on the walls 

Sung its own exiquies. 

Then, then, methought I heard a foot ; 

It sounded soft and still ; 
And slowly then it died away, 

Like echo on the hill. 
Or like the far, faint murmuring 

Of a lone hermit rill. 
Again that footstep sounded near, 

Again it died away ; 
And then I heard it gliding past 

The couch on which I lay ! 
I raised my head, and wildly gazed 

Into the glimmering gloom ; 
But nothing save the embers red. 
That on the spacious hearth were spread, 

I saw within that room. 
And all was dusky round. 

Save where those embers shed 
A pale and sickly gleam of light 

On t^ie Lady Margaret's bed. 



323 

On the couch where I did lie 
That sickly light did shine 
With one bright flash, when, as a voice 

Did cry, '' Mt\}mQt tu mint ! '* 

Another answered straight. 

And said, *♦ ^f}t ijOUC iU COttTt ! '^ 

I listened, — but these voices twain 

' For evermore were dumb. 

But again the still, soft foot 

Came creeping stealthy on ; 
I 

And then, O God ! mine ear upcaught 

A deep and stifled groan. 
It echoed through the lofty room 

So loud, so clear, and shrill, 
Methinks even to my dying day 

I '11 hear that echo still. 
Again that deep and smothered groan, — 

That rattle in the throat, — 
That awful sob of struggling life, — 

On my strained ear-strings smote. 
In desperate fear I madly strove 

To start from that witched bed, 
But on my breast there seemed up-piled 

A mountain-weight of lead. 
And when I strove to speak aloud, 

To dissipate that spell. 



324 

1 shuddered at the shapeless sounds 

That from mine own lips fell. 
'T was then, full filled with fear, I shut 

Mine eyes t' escape the gaze 
Of that dim chamber's arras'd walls, 

With their tales of other days. 
Lest ghastly shapes should start from them 

To sport in horrid glee 
Before my tortured sight — dark scenes- 

Of their life's tragedy. 
And like exulting fiends proclaim 

How black man's heart can be. 

But visionless scant space I lay 

With throbbing downshut lid, 
When o'er my brow and cheek, dear Lord ! 

A clammy coldness slid. 
O'er brow and cheek I felt it slide ; 

And, like a frozen rill. 
The blood waxed thick within my veins, 

Grew pulseless, and stood still. 
O'er brow and cheek I felt it slide. 

So clammy and so cold, 
Like the touch of one whose lifeless limbs 

In winding-sheet are rolled. 



325 



Straight upward did I look, and then 

From the thick obscurity — 
O, horrible ! — there downward gleamed 

Two glittering eyes on me. 
From the ceiling of that lofty room 

These glittering eyes did stare ; 
They rested on me, under them, 

With a fixed and fearful glare. 
O, never human eyes did flash 

So wild and strange a light. 
As these twin eyes straight downward poured 

On that unhappy night. 
Their beams shot down like lances long, 

Unutterably bright. 
And still these glittering, living lights 

Did steadfast gaze on me ; 
And each fibre of my heart shrunk up 

Beneath their sorcery. 
Still, still they gleam, — their searching glance 

Has pierced into my brain. 
I feel the stream of fire pass through, 

I feel its cureless pain ! 

One moment seemed to pass, and then 
My vision waxed more clear, 



326 

And livelier to my spell-fraught sight 

These blazing eyes appear, 
As with unholy light they lit 

A pallid cheek and brow, 
And quivered on a lip as cold 

And blenched as driven snow. 
And I did gaze on that pale brow. 

And on that lovesome cheek ; 
I watched those cold, part-opened lips, ■ 

Methought that they would speak ; 
But motionless, and void of life 

As monumental stone, 
Was every feature, save those eyes. 

That evermore outshone 
With a fearful lustre, that to life 

On earth is never known. 

That face was all a deadly white, 

Yet beautiful to see ; 
And indistinctly floated down 

Its body's symmetry. 
In ample folds and wimples quaint 

Of gorgeous drapery. 
And gleaming forth, like spots of snow 

On a sad colored field, 



327 

A small, white hand on either side 

Was partially revealed. 
O'er me a deeper horror, — 

A marvellous rush of light, — 
Long-perished memories returned 

Upon that fearful night. 
I heard the sounds of other times, 

The tales of other years. 
Reacted were their sharpest crimes ; 

Outpoured again their tears. 



MOTHERWELL'S 
POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 



The American Publishers have issued this volume in uni- 
form style with their other editions of the Writings of Mother- 
well, in order that the series might be complete. The volumes 
already published comprise the Poetical Works with the Memoir, 
and the Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern. 



POSTHUMOUS POEMS 



OF 



WILLIAM MOTHERWELL 



NOW FIRST COLLECTED. 



BOSTON: 
TICKNOR, REED, AND FIELDS 

MDCCCLI. 



THI:R?T0N', TORRY, and EMER.^dN, ri<INTER6. 



PREFACE TO THE GLASGOW EDITION. 

When the Second Edition of Motherwell's Poems was 
published, in 1847, it was stated in the Preface that the 
fragments of poetry which he had left behind him in manu- 
script, and which were not included in that volume, might be 
given to the public at some future day, should any encour- 
agement be offered for pursuing such a course. This the 
Publisher has now determined to do ; but before taking such 
a step, he resolved to submit the pieces in question to the 
critical scrutiny of Motherwell's old friend and poetical ally, 
Mr. William Kennedy, who chanced to be in Scotland at 
the time. The reader will, therefore, be good enough to 
understand that these Poems have been selected by Mr. Ken- 
nedy, and are published under his express authority. The 
Publisher is gratified in being able to make this statement, 
as it relieves him from a responsibility which he feels that it 
would not be becoming in him to incur. 



LINES 

Writtsn after a Visit to the Grave of my Friend, 
WILLIAM MOTHERWELL, 

November, 1847. 

Place we a stone at his head and his feet ; 
Sprinkle his sward with the small flowers sweet ; 
Piously hallow the Poet's retreat ! 

Ever approvingly, 

Ever most lovingly, 
Turned he to Nature, a worshipper meet. 

Harm not the thorn which grows at his head ; 
Odorous honors its blossoms will shed, 
Grateful to him, early summoned, who sped 

Hence, not unwillingly — 

For he felt thrillingly — 
To rest his poor heart 'mong the low-lying dead. 

Dearer to him than the deep Minster bell, 
Winds of sad cadence, at midnight, will swell, 
Vocal with sorrows he knoweth too well, 

Who, for the early day. 

Plaining this roundelay. 
Might his own fate from a brother's foretell. 



8 



Worldly ones treading this terrace of graves, 

Grudge not the minstrel the little he craves, 

When o'er the snow-mound the winter-blast raves — 

Tears — which devotedly, 

Though all unnotedly, 
Flow from their spring, in the soul's silent caves. 

Dreamers of noble thoughts, raise him a shrine, 
Graced with the beauty which lives in his line ; 
Strew with pale flow'rets, when pensive moons shine, 

His grassy covering. 

Where spirits hovering, 
Chaunt, for his requiem, music divine. 

Not as a record he lacketh a stone ! 

Pay a light debt to the singer we've known — 

Proof that our love for his name hath not flown 

With the frame perishing — 

That we are cherishing 
Feelings akin to the lost Poet's own. 

William Kennedy. 



CONTENTS. 



THAT THIS Weary War of Life 


. 17 


Choice of Death 


• . • 


19 


Like Mist on a Mountain-Top, 


broken and gray 


. 20 


SoNa .... 


• • • 


22 


True V/oman 


• . • 


. 24 


Friendship and Love . 


• • 


26 


And hae ye seen My Am True 


LUVE 


. 28 


The spell-bound Knight 


• • 


30 


Cruxtoun Castle . 


• • • 


. 32 


Roland and Rosabelle 


. • . 


40 


Song- 


. • 


. 43 


For blither Fields and fairer 


Bowers 


44 


Hope and Love 


• 


. 46 


SONGE of the ScHIPPE . 


. . 


48 


He stood alone 


• • 


. 51 


Cupid's Banishmente . 


. • • 


52 


The Ship of the Desert . 


• . 


. 54 


The Poet's Wish 


. 


56 


Isabelle 


• 


. 57 


What is this World to Me ? 


. 


59 


To a Lady's Bonnet 


. 


. 60 


The Wanderer 


• • • 


62 


Song 


• • . 


. 65 


The Hunter's Well 


« • « 


67 



10 



CONTENTS. 



It deeply Wounds the Trusting Heart 
The Ettin O'Sillarwood 
Like a Guay-Haired Mariner 
The Lay of Geoffroi Rudel . 
Envie . . . • 

Love's Tokens 

say not Pure Affections Change 
The Rose and the Fair Lilye 
Young Love . . . 
To THE Tempest 

GOE CLEED Wl' SmYLIS THE ChEEK . 

The Poet's Destiny . 

1 MET Wl' Her I LUYED YESTREEN . 

To the Lady of my Heart 

The Faiue Lad ye . 

My Ain Countrie 

To A Friend at Parting . 

I Plucked the Berry . 

Song .... 

f Q # * # * . 

The Knight's Requiem 

The Rocky Islet 

The Past and the Future 

0, TURN from Me those radiant Eyes 

O Think nae more o' Me, Sweet May 

The love-lorn Knight and the Damsel pitiless 

Love in Wokldlynesse 

A Night Vision 

This is no Solitude 

The Lone Thorn 

The Slayne Menstrel 

The Mermaiden 

Song .... 

The Lean Lover 

Affectest Thou the Pleasures of the Shade ? 

Music .... 



69 

71 

80 

81 

82 

84 

86 

87 

90 

92 

94 

97 

98 

100 

101 

103 

105 

109 

110 

112 

114 

117 

118 

120 

121 

123 

125 

128 

136 

137 

138 

142 

144 

146 

148 

149 



CONTENTS. 1 1 

The Shipwrecked Lover . . . . .151 

Hollo, my Fa^cv ..... 154 

Love's Potencie ...... 167 

Life ....... 169 

Superstition ...... 170 

Ye Vernal Hours ..... 174 

Come, thou bright Spirit . . . 175 

Lays of The Lang Bein Ritters . . . 178 

The Ritters ride forth .... 178 

Lay of the Broken-Hearted and Hope-Bereaved Men 18U 

Dream of Life's Early Day, Farewell for ever . 182 

The Ritters ride Home .... 185 



POEMS 



POSTHUMOUS POEMS. 



O THAT THIS WEARY WAR OF LIFE 

THAT this weary war of life 

With me were o'er, 
Its eager cry of wo and strife 

Heard never more ! 
I've fronted the red battle field 

Mine own dark day ; 

1 fain would fling the helmet, shield, 

And sword away. 
I strive not now for victory — 

That wish hath fled ; 
My prayer is now to numbered be 

Among the dead — 
All that I loved, alas ! — alas ! 

Hath perished ! 
2 



18 



They tell me 'tis a glorious thing, 

This wearing war ; 
They tell me joy crowns suffering 

And bosom scar. 
Such speech might never pass the lips 

That could unfold 
How shrinketh heart when sorrow nips 

Affections old : 
When they who cleaved to us are dust, 

Why live to moan ? 
Better to meet a felon thrust 

Than strive alone — 
Better than loveless palaces 

The churchyard I stone ! 



CHOICE OF DEATH. 

Might I, without offending, choose 
The death that I would die, 

I'd fall, as erst the Templar fell, 
Aneath a Syrian sky. 

Upon a glorious plain of war. 

The banners floating fair, 
My lance and fluttering pennoncel 

Should marshal heroes there ! 

Upon the solemn battle-eve. 
With prayer to be forgiven, 

I'd arm me for a righteous fight, 
Imploring peace of Heaven ! 

High o'er the thunders of the charge 
Should wave my sable plume. 

And where the day was lost or won, 
There should they place my tomb ! 



LIKE MIST ON A MOUNTAIN TOP 
BROKEN AND GRAY. 



Like mist on a mountain top broken and gray, 
The dream of my early day fleeted away : 
Now the evening of life, with its shadows, steals on, 
And memory reposes on years that are gone ! 

Wild youth with strange fruitage of errors and tears — 
A midday of bliss and a midnight of fears — 
Though chequer'd, and sad, and mistaken you've been. 
Still love I to muse on the hours we have seen ! 

With those long-vanished hours fair visions are flown. 
And the soul of the minstrel sinks pensive and lone ; 
In vain would I ask of the future to bring 
The verdure that gladden'd my life in its spring ! 



21 



I think of the glen where the hazle-nut grew — 
The pine-covered hill where the heather-bell blew — 
The trout -burn which soothed with its murmuring 

sweet, 
The wild flowers that gleamed on the red deer's re- 
treat ! 

I look for the mates full of ardour and truth, 

Whose joys, like my own, were the sunbeams of 

youth — 
They passed ere the morning of hope knew its close — 
They left me to sleep where our fathers repose ! 

Where is now the wide hearth with the big; fago-ot's 

blaze. 
Where circled the legend and song of old days ? 
The legend's forgotten, the hearth is grown cold. 
The home of my childhood to strangers is sold ! 

Like a pilgrim who speeds on a perilous way, 

I pause, ere I part, oft again to survey 

Those scenes ever dear to the friends I deplore, 

Whose feast of young smiles I may never share more ! 



SONG. 

If to thy heart I were as near 

As thou art near to mine, 
I'd hardly care though a' the year 
Nae sun on earth suld shine, my dear, 

Nae sun on earth suld shine ! 

Twin starnies are thy glancin' een — 

A warld they'd licht and mair — 
And gin that ye be my Christine, 
Ac blink to me ye '11 spare, my dear, 
Ae blink to me ye '11 spare ! 

My leesome May I 've wooed too lan-g 

Aneath the trystin' tree, 
I've sung till a' the plantins rang, 
Wi' lays o' love for thee, my dear, 

Wi' lays o' love for thee. 



23 



The dew-draps glisten on the green, 

The laverocks lilt on high, 
We'll forth and doun the loan, Christine, 
And kiss when nane is nigh, my dear. 

And kiss when nane is nigh ! 



TRUE WOMAN. 

No quaint conceit of speech, 
No golden, minted phrase — 

Dame Nature needs to teach 
To echo Woman's praise ; 

Pure love and truth unite 

To do thee. Woman, right ! 

She is the faithful mirror 

Of thoughts that brightest be — 
Of feelings without error. 

Of matchless constancie ; 
When art essays to render 

More glorious Heaven's bow — 
To paint the virgin splendour 

Of fresh-fallen mountain snow- 
New fancies will I find. 
To laud true Woman's mind. 



25 



No words can lovelier make 

Virtue's all-lovely name, 
No change can ever shake 

A woman's virtuous fame : 
The moon is forth anew, 

Though envious clouds endeavour 
To screen her from our view — 

More beautiful than ever : 
So, through detraction's haze. 
True Woman shines alwaies. 

The many -tinted rose. 

Of gardens is the queen. 
The perfumed Violet knows 

No peer where she is seen 
The flower of woman-kind 
Is ave a gentle mind. 



FRIENDSHIP AND LOYE. 

Oft have I sighed for pleasure past, 

Oft wept for secret smarting — 
But far the heaviest drop of all 
That ever on my cheek did fall 
The tear was at our parting. 

Why did our bosoms ever beat 
Harmonious with each other, 
If truest sympathies of soul 
Might broken be, perhaps the whole 
Concentred in another ? 

My fear it was when other scenes. 
With other tongues, and faces, 

Should greet thee, thou would'st haply be 

Forgetful of our amity 
In old frequented places. 



27 



'Tis even so — the thrall of love,. 

Past ties to thee seem common — 
Well, hearts must yield to beauty rare, 
And proud-souled friendship hardly dare 

Contest the prize with woman ! 

Old friend, adieu ! I blame thee not, 
Since fair guest fills thy bosom — 
Thy smiling love may flattered be 
Our bonds to know, and feel that she 
Thy pow'r had to unloose them ! 

Since thou surrenderest all for her. 

May she, with faith unshaken. 
Place every thought on thee alone, 
While he who Friendship's dream hath known, 

Must from that dream awaken ! 



AND HAE YE SEEN MY AIN TRUE LUVE? 

' And hae ye seen my ain true luve 
As ye cam thro' the fair ? 
Ae blink o' her 's worth a' the goud 
And gear that glistens there ! ' — 
'- And how suld I ken your true luve 
Frae ither lasses braw 
That trysted there, busked out like queens, 
Wi' pearlins knots and a' ? ' 

' Ye may ken her by her snaw- white skin, 

And by her waist sae sma' ; 
Ye may ken her by her searchin' ee, 

And hair like glossy craw ; 
Ye may ken her by the hinnie mou. 

And by the rose-dyed cheek, 
But best o' a' by smiles o' licht 

That luve's ain language speak ! 



29 



' Ye may ken her by her fairy step — 

As she trips up the street, 
The very pavement seems to shine 

Aneath her genty feet ! 
Ye may ken her by the jewelPd rings 

Upon her fingers sma', 
Yet better by the dignity 

That she glides through them a'. 

' And ye may ken her by the voice — 

The music o' her tongue — 
Wha heard her speak incontinent 

Wad think an angel sung ! 
And such seems she to me, and mair, 

That wale o' woman's charms — 
It's bliss to press her dear wee mou 

And daut her in my arms ! ' 



THE SPELL-BOUND KNIGHT. 

Lady, dar'st thou seek the shore 
Which ne'er woman's footstep bore ; — 
Where beneath yon rugged steep, 
Restless rolls the darksome deep ? 

Dar'st thou, though thy blood run chill. 
Thither speed at midnight still — 
And when horror rules the sky, 
Raise for lover lost thy cry ? 

Dar'st thou at that ghastiest hour 
Breathe the word of magic power — 
Word that breaks the mermaid's spell, 
Which false lover knows too well ? 

When affrighted spectres rise 
'Twixt pale floods and ebon skies, 
Dar'st thou, reft of maiden fear. 
Bid the Water-Witch appear ? 



31 



When upon the sallow tide 
Pearly elfin boat does glide, 
When the mystic oar is heard, 
Like the wing of baleful bird — 
Dar'st thou with a voice of might 
Call upon thy spell-bound knight ? 

When the shallop neareth land, 
Dar'st thou, with thy snow-white hand, 
Boldly on the warrior's breast 
Place the Cross by Churchman blest ? — 
When is done this work of peril. 
Thou hast won proud Ulster's Earl ! 



CRUXTOUN CASTLE. 



The reader will find a brief, but instructive, account of this 
relic of Baronial times — which, at different periods, has been 
written Cruxtoun, Croestoun, and Crookston — in a work enti- 
tled 'Views in Renfrewshire/ by Philip A. Ramsay, one of the 
Poet's earliest and truest friends. Of the objects of antiquity 
remaining in Renfrewshire, Cruxtoun Castle, according to 
Mr. Ramsay, is, in point of interest, second only to the 
Abbey of Paisley. ' The ruins of this castle,' he observes, 
' occupy the summit of a wooded slope, overhanging the south 
bank of the White Cart, about three miles south-east from 
Paisley, and close to the spot where that river receives the 
waters of a stream called the Levern. The scenery in this 
neighbourhood is rich and varied, and although the eminence 
on which the Castle stands is but gentle, it is so commanding 
that our great Noveli'^t has made Queen Mary remark, that 
'' from thence you may see a prospect wide as from the peaks 
of Schehallion." To Cruxtoun Castle, then the property of 
Darnley, Mary's husband, tradition tells us, the royal bride 
was conducted, soon after the celebration of their nuptials at 
Edinburgh.' 

Thou grey and antique tower, 
Receive a wanderer of the lonely night, 
Whose moodful sprite 
Rejoices at this witching time to brood 



33 



Amid thy shattered strength's dim solitude ! 
It is a fear-fraught hour — 
A death-like stillness reigns around, 
Save the wood-skirted river's eerie sound, 
And the faint rustling of the trees that shower 
Their brown leaves on the stream. 
Mournfully gleaming in the moon's pale beam : 
O ! I could dwell for ever and for ever 
In such a place as this, with such a night ! 
When, o'er thy waters and thy waving woods. 
The moon-beams sympathetically quiver, 
And no ungentle thing on thee intrudes. 
And every voice is dumb, and every object bright ! 
Forgive, old Cruxtoun, if, with step unholy. 
Unwittingly a pilgrim should profane 
The regal quiet, the august repose, 
Which o'er thy desolated summit reign — 
When the fair moon's abroad, at evening's close — 
Or interrupt that touching melancholy — 
Image of fallen grandeur — softly thrown 
O'er every crumbling and moss-bedded stone, 
And broken arch, and pointed turret hoar, 
Which speak a tale of times that are no more ; 
Of triumphs they have seen. 

When Minstrel-craft, in praise of Scotland's Queen, 
Woke all the magic of the harp and song, 
3 



34 



And the rich, varied, and fantastic lore 
Of those romantic days was carped, I ween, 
Amidst the pillared pomp of lofty hall, 
By many a jewelled throng 
Of smiling dames and soldier barons bold ; 
When the loud cheer of generous wassail rolled 
From the high deis to where the warder strode, 
Proudly, along the battlemented wall. 
Beneath his polished armour's ponderous load ; 
Who paused to hear, and carolled back again, 
With martial glee, the jocund vesper strain : 
Thou wilt forgive ! Mine is no peering eye. 
That seeks, with glance malign, the suffering part. 
Thereby, with hollow show of sympathy. 
To smite again the poor world-wounded heart : 
No — thy misfortunes win from him a sigh 
Whose soul towers, like thyself, o'er each lewd 
passer-by. 

Relique of earlier days. 

Yes, dear thou art to me ! — 

And beauteous, marvellously, 

The moon-light strays 

Where banners glorious floated on thy walls — 

Clipping their ivied honours with its thread 

Of half-angelick light : 



35 



And though o'er thee Time's wasting dews have shed 

Their all consuming blight, 

Maternal moon-light falls 

On and around thee full of tenderness, 

Yielding thy shattered frame pure love's divine caress. 

Ah me ! thy joy of youthful lustyhood 
Is gone, old Cruxtoun ! Ever, ever gone ! 
Here hast thou stood 
In nakedness and sorrow, roofless, lone, 
For many a weary year — and to the storm 
Hast bared thy wasted form — 
Braving destruction, in the attitude 
Of reckless desolation. Like to one 
Who in this world no longer may rejoice. 
Who watching by Hope's grave 
With stern delight, impatient is to brave 
The worst of coming ills — So, Cruxtoun ! thou 
Rear'st to the tempest thy undaunted brow ; 
When Heaven's red coursers flash athwart the sky — 
Startling the guilty as they thunder by — 
Then raisest thou a wild, unearthly hymn. 
Like death- desiring bard whose star hath long been 
dim ! 

Neglected though thou art, 

Sad remnant of old Scotland's worthier days, 



36 



When independence had its chivalrie, 

There still is left one heart 

To mourn for thee ! 

And though, alas ! thy venerable form 

Must bide the buffet of each vagrant storm, 

One spirit yet is left to linger here 

And pay the tribute of a silent tear ; 

Who in his memory registers the dints 

That Time hath graved upon thy sorrowing brow ; 

Who of thy woods loves the Autumnal tints, 

Whose voice — perforce indignant — mingles now 

In all thy lamentations — with the tone. 

Not of these paltry times, but of brave years long gone. 

Nor is't the moonshine clear, 
Leeming on tower, and tree, and silent stream, 
Nor hawthorn blossoms which in Spring appear. 
Most prodigal of perfume — nor the sweets 
Of wood-flowers, peeping up at the blue sky ; 
Nor the mild aspect of blue hills which greet 
The eager vision — blessed albeit they seem. 
Each with its charm particular — To my eye. 
Old Cruxtoun hath an interest all its own — 
From many a cherished, intersociate thought — 
From feelings multitudinous well known 
To souls in whom the patriot fire hath wrought 



37 



Sublime remembrance of their country^'s fame : 

Radiant thou art in the ethereal flame — 

The lustrous splendour — which those feelings shed 

O'er many a scene of this my father-land ! 

Thou, grey magician, with thy potent wand, 

Evok'st the shades of the illustrious dead ! 

The mists dissolve — up rise the slumbering years — 

On come the knightly riders cap-a-pie — 

The herald calls — hark, to the clash of spears ! 

To Beauty's Queen each hero bends the knee ; 

Dreams of the Past, how exquisite ye be — 

Offspring of heavenly faith and rare antiquity ! 

Light feet have trod 

The soft, green, flowering sod 

That girdles thy baronial strength, and traced. 

All gracefully, the labyrinthine dance ; 

Young hearts discoursed with many a passionate glance, 

While rose and fell the Minstrel's thrilling strain — 

(Who, in this iron age, might sing in vain — 

His largesse coarse neglect, and mickle pain !) 

Waste are thy chambers tenantless, which long 

Echoed the notes of gleeful minstrelsie — 

Notes once the prelude to a tale of wrong. 

Of Royalty and love. — Beneath yon tree — 

Now bare and blasted — so our annals tell — 



38 



The martyr Queen, ere that her fortunes knew 
A darker shade than cast her favourite yew, 
Loved Darnley passing well — 
Loved him with tender woman's generous love, 
And bade farewell awhile to courtly state 
And pageantry for yon o'ershadowing grove — 
For the lone river's banks where small birds sing — 
Their little hearts with summer joys elate — 
Where tall broom blossoms, flowers profusely spring ; 
There he, the most exalted of the land. 
Pressed, with the grace of youth, a Sovereign's peer- 
less hand. 

And she did die ! — 

Die as a traitor — in the brazen gaze 

Of her — a kinswoman and enemy — 

O well may such an act my soul amaze ! 

My country, at that hour, where slept thy sword ? 

Where was the high and chivalrous accord, 

To fling the avenging banner of our land. 

Like sheeted flame, forth to the winds of heaven ? 

O shame among the nations — thus to brook 

The damning stain to thy escutcheon given ! 

How could thy sons upon their mothers look, 

Degenerate Scotland ! heedless of the wail 

Of thy lorn Queen, in her captivity J 



39 



UnmovM wert tbou by all her bitter bale — 
Untouch'd by thought that she had governed thee — 
Hard was each heart and cold each powerful hand — 
No harnessed steed rushed panting to the fight ; 
O listless fell the lance when Mary laid 
Her head upon the block — and high in soul, 
Which lacked not then thy frugal sympathy, 
Died — in her widowed beauty, penitent — 
Whilst thou, by foul red-handed faction rent, 
Wert falsest recreant to sweet majesty ! 

'T is past — she rests — the scaffold hath been swept. 
The headsman's guilty axe to rust consigned — 
But, Cruxtoun, while thine aged towers remain, 
And thy green umbrage wooes the evening wind — 
By noblest natures shall her woes be wept. 
Who shone the glory of thy festal day : 
Whilst aught is left of these thy ruins grey. 
They will arouse remembrance of the stain 
Queen Mary's doom hath left on History's page — 
Remembrance laden with reproach and pain. 
To those who make, like me, this pilgrimage ! 



ROLAND AND ROSABELLE. 

A TOMB by skilful hands is raised, 

Close to a sainted shrine, 
And there is laid a stalwart Knight, 

The last of all his Hne. 
Beside that noble monument, 

A Squire doth silent stand, 
Leaning in pensive wise upon 

The cross-hilt of his brand. 

Around him peals the harmony 

Of friars at even-song, 
He notes them not, as passing by 

The hymning brothers throng : 
And he hath watched the monument 

Three weary nights and days, 
And ever on the marble cold 

Is fixed his steadfast gaze. 



\ 



41 



' I pray thee, wakeful Squire, unfold ' — 

Proud Rosabella said — 
' The story of the warrior bold. 

Who in this tomb is laid ! ' 
' A champion of the Cross was he ' — 

The Squire made low reply — 
' And on the shore of Galilee, 

In battle did he die. 

' He bound me by a solemn vow, 

His body to convey 
Where lived his love — there rests it now. 

Until the judgment-day : 
And by his stone of record here. 

In loyalty I stand. 
Until I greet his leman dear — 

The Lady of the. Land !' 

' Fair stranger, I would learn of thee 
The gentle warrior's name, 
Who fighting fell at Galilee 

And won a deathless name ? ' 
The Squire hath fixed an eye of light 
Full on the Lady tall — 
' Men called,' he said, ' that hapless Knight 
Sir Roland of the Hall ! 



42 



* His foot was foremost in the fray, 

And last to leave the field — 
A braver arm in danger's day 

Ne'er shivered lance on shield ! ' 
' In death, what said he of his love — 

Thou faithful soldier tell ? ' 
' Meekly he prayed to Him above 

For perjured Rosabelle.' 

' Thy task is done — my course is run — 

(O fast her tears did fall !) 
I am indeed a perjured one — 

Dear Roland of the Hall ! ' 
Even as the marble cold and pale, 

Waxed Rosabella's cheek ; 
The faithful Squire resumed travail — 

The Lady's heart did break ! 



SONG. 

How I envy the ring that encircles thy finger ! — 
Dear daughter of beauty how happy were I 

If, by some sweet spell, like that ring, I might linger 
At ease in the light of thy heart-thrilling eye ! 

I would joy in the music thy light pulse is making, 
I would press the soft cheek where the rose-buds 
unfold — 
I would rest on the brow where pure thought's ever 
waking. 
And lovingly glide through thy tresses of gold. 

On the ripe smiling lip which young Cupid is steeping 
In dews of love's day-dawn, I'd tenderly play — 

And when in thy innocence, sweet, thou wert sleeping, 
I'd watch thee, and bless thee, and guard thee for 
aye! 



FOR BLITHER FIELDS AND BRAVER 
BOWERS. 

For blither fields and braver bowers 

The little bird, in Spring, 
Quits its old tree and wintry hold, 

With wanton mates to sing ; 
And yet a while that wintry home 

To branch and twig may cling ; 
But wayward blast, or truant boy, 

May rend it soon away, 
And scatter to the heedless winds 

The toil of many a day — 
And where, when Winter comes, shall then 

The bird its poor head lay ? 

The moss, the down, the twisted grass, 
The slender wands that bound 

The dear warm nest, are parted now, 
Or scattered far around — 

Belike the woodman's axe hath felled 
The old tree to the ground ! 



45 



And now keen Winter's wreathing snows 

O'er frozen nature lie — 
The sun forgets to warm the earth, 

Forgets to light the sky ; 
I fear me lest the wandering bird 

May, houseless, shivering, die ! 

Forgive me, Helen — thou art free 

To keep, or quit, the nest 
I built for thee, and sheltered in 

The foliage of my breast. 
And fenced so well none other might 

Be harbour'd there as guest. 
Flee if thou wilt — if other love 

Thy fickle heart enfold. 
Thou 'rt free to rove where fancy waves 

Her wand of fairy gold — 
But Helen, ere thou canst return, 

This bosom will be cold ! 



HOPE AND LOVE. 

Through life on journeying, by its thorny paths, 

Or pleasant ways — its rank green hemlock wastes. 

Or roseate bowers — in utter loneliness, 

Or 'mid the din of busy multitudes — 

Two babes of beauty linger near us still — 

Twin cherubim — that leave us not until 

We 've passed the threshold of that crowded inn 

Which borders on Eternity ! One doth point, 

With gleaming eye and finger tremulous, 

To clefts in azure, where the sunbeams slumber 

On couch of vermeil dye and amethyst, 

Bordered with flowers that never know decay ; 

Where living fountains, cool and argentine, 

Trill on in measured cadence, night and morn : 

The other, with an eye of sweet regard. 

And voice the spirit of pure melody, 

Sheds o'er the darkest track some ray of gladness — 

To elevate the heart, and nerve the soul. 

With unslacked sinews, vigorously to brave 

The perils of the unattempted road : 



47 



Love, gentle Love — one fellow-pilgrim is — 
The other Hope — dear, never-dying Hope !- 
And they to churle, as well as keysour yield 
The tender ministering of faithful friends ! 



SONGE OF THE SCHIPPE. 

When surly windes and grewsome cloudes 

Are tilting in the skye, 
And every little star's abed, 

That glimmered cheerilie — 
O then 'tis meet for mariners 

To steer righte carefulie ! 
For mermaides sing the schippman's dirge, 
Where ocean weddes the skye — 
A blessing on our gude schippe as lustilie she sailes, 
O what can match our gude schippe when blest with 
favouring gales ! 

Blythely to the tall top-mast. 

Up springs the sailor boy — 
Could he but hail a distant port, 

Plow he would leap with joy ! 
By bending yard and rope he swings — 

A fair-haired child of glee — 



49 



But oh ! a cruel sawcie wave 
Hath swept him in the sea ! 
There's sadness in the gude schippe that breasts the 

waters wild, 
Though safe ourselves, we '11 think with tears of our 
poor ocean-child ! 

Our main-mast now is clean cut downe, 

The tackle torn away — 
And thundering o'er the stout schippe's side, 

The seas make fearful play ! 
Yet cheerlie cheerlie on we go. 

Though fierce the tempest raves. 
We know the hand unseen that guides 
The schippe o'er stormie waves ! 
We'll all still stand by the old schippe as should a 

trusty crew. 
For He who rules the wasting waves may some port 
bring to view ! 

Our gude schippe is a shapely schippe — 

A shapely and a stronge — 
Our hearts sang to our noble schippe. 

As she careered along ! 
And fear ye not my sturdy mates 

Though sayles and masts be riven — 
4 



50 



Wc know, while drifting o'er the deep, 
Above there's still a haven ! 
Though sorely we're benighted upon the weltering 

foam, 
The sun may rise upon the morn and guide us to a 
home ! 



PIE STOOD ALONE. 

He stood alone in an unpitying crowd — 

His mates fell from him, as the grub-worms drop 

From the green stalk that once had nourished them, 

But now is withered and all rottenness 

Because it gave such shelter. Pleasure's train — 

The light-winged tribes that seek the sunshine only — 

No more endeavoured from his eye to win 

The smile of approbation. Grief and Care 

Stalked forth upon the theatre of his heart, 

In many a gloomy and mishapen guise, 

Till of the glories of his earlier self 

The world, his base and hollow auditory, 

Left but a ghastly phantom. As a tree, 

A goodly tree — that stricken is and wasted, 

By elemental conflicts — falls at last, 

Even in the fulness of its branching honours, 

Prostrate before the storm — yet majestic 

In its huge downfal, so, at last, fell he ! 



CUPID'S BANISHMENTS. 

What recke I now of comely dame ? 
What care I now for fair pucelle ? 

Unscorchde I meet their glance of flame, 
Unmovede I mark their bosoms swel, 
For Love and I have sayde farewel ! 

Go, prattlynge fool ! — go, wanton wilde ! 
Seke thy fond mother this to tel — 

That loveliest maydes on me have smyled, 
And that I stoutly did rebel. 
And bade thee and thy arts farewel ! 

With me thy tyrant reigne is o'er, 

Thou hear'st thy latest warninge knel ; 

Speed, waywarde urchin, from my doore, — 
My hert to thee gives no handsel, 
For thou and I have sworne farewel ! 



53 



So trimme thy bow, and fleche thy shafte, 
And peer where sillie gallants dwel, 

On them essaye thy archer crafte, 
No more on me thy bolte schal tel — 
False Love and I have sunge farewel ! 



THE SHIP OF THE DESERT. 

' Onward, my Camel ! — On, though slow ; 

Halt not upon these fatal sands ! 
Onward my constant Camel go — 
The fierce Simoom hath ceased to blow, 

We soon shall tread green Syria's lands ! 

' Droop not my faithful Camel ! Now 
The hospitable well is near ! 
Though sick at heart, and worn in brow, 
I grieve the most to think that thou 
And I may part, kind comrade, here ! 

' O'er the dull waste a swelling mound — 

A verdant paradise — I see ; 
The princely date-palms there abound. 
And springs that make it sacred ground 

To pilgrims like to thee and me ! ' 



54 



The patient CamePs filmy eye, 

All lustreless, is fixed in death ! 
Beneath the sun of Araby 
The desert wanderer ceased to sigh. 
Exhausted on its burning path. 

Then rose upon the Wilderness 

The solitary Driver's cry : 
Thoughts of his home upon him press. 
As, in his utter lonehness, 

He sees his burden-bearer die. 

Hope gives no echo to his call — 

Ne'er from his comrade will he sever ! 

The red sky is his funeral pall ; 

A prayer — a moan — 'tis over, all — 
Camel and lord now rest for ever ! 

A three hour's journey from the spring 

Loved of the panting Caravan — 
Within a little sandy ring — 
The Camel's bones lie whitening. 
With thine, old, unlamented man ! 



THE POET'S WISH. 

WOULD that in some wild and winding glen 
Where human footstep ne'er did penetrate, 

And from the haunts of base and selfish men 
Remote, in dreamy loneness situate, 

1 had my dwelling : and within my ken 

Nature disporting in fantastic form — 

Asleep in green repose, and thundering in the storm ! 

Then mine should be a life of deep delight, — 

Rare undulations of ecstatic musing ; 
Thoughts calm, yet ever-varying, stream bedight 

With flowers immortal of quick Fancy's choosing — 
And like unto the ray of tremulous light. 

Blent by the pale moon with the entranced water, 

I'd wed thee. Solitude, dear Nature's first-born 
daughter ! 



ISABELLE 



A SERENADE. 



Hark ! sweet Isabelle, hark to my lute, 

As softly it plaineth o'er 
The story of one to whose lowly suit 

Thy heart shall beat no more ! 
List to its tender plaints, my love, 
Sad as the accents of saints, my love, 

Who mortal sin deplore ! 

Awake from your slumber, Isabelle, wake, 
'T is sorrow that tunes these strings ; 

A last farewell would the minstrel take 
Of her whose beauty he sings : 

The moon seems to weep on her way, my love. 

And, shrouded in clouds, seems to say, my love, 
No hope with the morning springs ! 



58 



Deep on the breeze peals the hollow sound 

Of the dreary convent bell ; 
Its walls, ere a few short hours wheel round, 

Will girdle my Isabelle ! 
They'll take thee away from these arms, love, 
And bury thy blossoming charms, love. 

Where midnight requiems swell. 

At the high altar I see thee kneel, ' 

With pallid and awe-struck face ; 

I see the veil those looks conceal 

That shone with surpassing grace — 

The shade will prey on thy bloom, my love. 

While I shall wend to the tomb, my love, 
And leave of my name no trace. 

We lov'd and we grew, we grew and we lov'd, 

Twin flowers in a dewy vale ; 
The churchman's cold hand hath one remov'd, 

The other will soon v/ax pale : 
O fast will be its decline, my love, 
As this dying note of mine, my love, 

Lost in the evening gale ! 



WHAT IS THIS WORLD TO ME? 

What is this world to me ? 
A harp sans melodie ; 
A dream of vain idlesse, 
A thought of bitterness, 
That grieves the aching brain, 
And gnaws the heart in twain ! 

My spirit pines alwaie. 
Like captive shut from day ; 
Or like a sillie flower. 
Estranged from sun and shower — 
Which, withering, soon must die, 
In love-lorne privacie. 

No joye my hearte doth finde. 

With those they calle my kinde ; 

O dull it is and sad. 

To see how men waxe bad : 

As Autumn leaves decay, 

So verteue fades away ! 



TO A LADY'S BONNET. 

Invidious shade ! why thus presume, 
O'er face so fair to cast thy gloom ; 
And hide from the enamoured sight, 
Those lips so sweet and eyes so bright ? 
Why veil those blushes of the cheek. 
Which purity of soul bespeak ? 
Why shroud that brow in hermit cell, 
On which high thoughts serenely dwell ? 
Why chain severe the clustering hair, 
That whilome shed a radiance rare — 
A golden mist — o'er neck and brow. 
Like sunset over drifted snow ? 

O kindly shade, for ever be 
Between me and love's witchery ! 
For ever be to Ellen's eyes. 
Like grateful cloud in summer skies, 



61 



Mellowing the fervour of the day : 
For should they dart another ray 
Of their enchanting light on me, 
Farewell the proud boast — I am free ! 



THE WANDERER. 

No face I look upon doth greet me 

With smile that generous welcome lends ; 

No ready hand, with cheerful glow, 

Is now stretched out, all glad, to meet me 

A chill distrust on every brow. 

Assures me I have here no friends ! 

I miss the music of home voices, 
The rushing of the mountain flood, 

My country's birds that blithely sung 
In woodlands where green May rejoices, 

Discoursing love when life was young. 
And mirthful ever was my mood. 

The breezes soft that fan my cheek. 

The bower that shades the sun from me. 

The sky that spans this Southern shore. 
Do all a different language speak 

From breeze and bower I loved of yore. 
And sky that spans my own countree. 



63 



They bring not health to exiled men — 
They light not up the home-bent eye ; 

No, piece-meal wastes the way-worn frame 
That longs to tread its native glen — 

That trembles when it hears the name 
Of that land where its fathers lie ! 

The sun which shines seems not the sun 
That rose upon my native fields ; 

Majestic rolls he on his way, 

A cloudless course hath he to run — 

But beams he with the kindly ray 

He to our Northern landscape yields r 

The moon that trembles in these skies, 
Like to an argent mirror sheen — 

Ruling with mistless splendour here — 
Does she above the mountains rise, 

And smile upon the waters clear, 
As in my days of youth I've seen ? 

beautiful and peerless light, 

That thou should'st seem unlovely now. 
That thou should'st fail to wake anew 

Those looks of heartfelt pure delight. 
Which youthful Fancy upward threw. 

While gazing on thy cold, pale brow ! 



64 



But this is not a kindred land, 
Nor this the old familiar stream ; 

And these are not the friends of youth — 
O heartless, loveless, seems this strand — 

Its people lack the kindly ruth, 

The soother of life's turbid dream ! 

Away regret ! Here must I die. 

Remote from all my soul held dear — 

My grave, upon an alien shore, 
Will ne'er attract the passer-by 

The lonely sleeper to deplore — 

No flower will grace the stranger's bier ! 

Winds of the melancholy night. 

Begin vour solemn dirge and bland ! 

The giant clouds are gathering fast, 

The fearful moon withdraws her light — 

In mournful visions of the past. 
Again I '11 seek my native land ! 



SONG. 

I LOOK on thee once more, — 

I gaze on thee and sigh, 
To think how soon some hearts run o'er 

With love, and then run dry. 

I need not marvel long 

That love in thee expires. 
For shallowest streams have loudest song, 

Most smoke the weakest fires. 

I deemed thee once sincere, — 
Once thought thy breast must be 

A fountain gushing through the year 
With living love for me ! 

For so it was with mine, 

The well-springs of my soul 
Were opened up, and streamed to thine. 

As their appointed goal. 
5 



66 



And now they wander on, 
O'er barren sands unblest, 

Since falsehood placed its seal upon 
Thy fair, but frozen, breast ! 



THE HUNTER'S WELL. 

Life of this wilderness, 

Pure gushing stream, 
Dear to the Summer 

Is thy murmuring ! 
Note of the song-bird, 

Warbhng on high, 
Ne'er with my spirit made " 

Such harmony 
As do thy deep waters. 

O'er rock, leaf, and flower, 
Bubbling and babbling 

The long sunny hour ! 

Tongue of this desert spot. 
Spelling sweet tones. 

To the mute listeners — 
Old mossy stones ; 



68 

Who ranged these stones near 

Thy silver rim, 
Guarding the temple 

Where rises thy hymn ? 
Some thirst-stricken Hunter — 

Swarth priest of the wood, 
Around thee hath strewn them, 

In fond gratitude. 

Orb of the green waste, 

Open and clear, 
Friend of the Hunter, 

Loved of the deer ; 
Brilliantly breaking 

Beneath the blue sky, 
Gladdening the leaflets 

That tremulous sigh ; 
Star of my wandering, 

Symbol of love. 
Lead me to dream of 

The Fountain above ! 



IT DEEPLY WOUNDS THE TRUSTING 
HEART. 

It deeply wounds the trusting heart 

That ever throbs to good, 
To know that by a perverse art 

It still is misconstrued : 

And thus the beauties of the field, 

The glories of the sky. 
To lofty natures often yield 

Sole solace ere they die. 

The things that harmless couch on earth, 
Or pierce the blue of heaven, 

Have mystic reasons in their birth 
Why they should be sin-shriven. 

The secrets of the human breast 

No human eye may scan ; 
With Him alone those secrets rest 

Who made and judgeth man. 



70 

Nor lightly should we estimate 

The Hand which rules it so, 
Nor idly seek to penetrate 

What angels may not know. 

Enough that with a righteous will, 

In this disjointed scene. 
The upright one, through good and ill, 

Will be as he hath been. 

And should a ribald multitude 

Repay with hate his love, 
He still can smile : man's ways are viewed 

By Him who rules above. 



THE ETTIN 0' SILLARWOOl). 

* O, SiLLARWooD ! sweet SillarwoocI, 
Gin Sillarwood were mine, 

I'd big a bouir in Sillarwood 
And theik it ower wi' thyme ; 

At ilka door, and ilka bore, 

The red, red rose, wud shine ! ' 

It's up and sang the bonnie bird. 
Upon her milk-white hand — 
' I wudna lig in Sillarwood, 
For all a gude Earl's land ; 
I wadna sing in Sillarwood, 
Tho' gowden glist ilk wand ! 

' The wild boar rakes in Sillarwood, 
The buck drives thro' the shaw, 
And simmer woos the Southern wind 
Thro' Sillarwood to blaw. 



72 



' Thro' Sillarwood, sweet Sillarwood, 
The deer hounds run so free ; 
But the hunter stark of Sillarwood 
An Ettin lang is he ! ' 

'■ O, Sillarwood ! sweet Sillarwood,' 

Fair Marjorie did sing, 
' On the tallest tree in Sillarwood, 

That Ettin lang will hing ! ' 

The Southern wind it blaws fu' saft, 

And Sillarwood is near ; 
Fair Marjorie's sang in Sillarwood, 

The stark hunter did hear. 

He band his deer hounds in their leash, 

Set his bow against a tree, 
And three blasts on his horn has brocht 

The wood elf to his knee. 

' Gae bring to me a shapely weed. 
Of silver and of gold, 
Gae bring to me as stark a steed, 

As ever stepped on mold ; 
For I maun ride frae Sillarwood 
• This fair maid to behold ! ' 



•a3 



The wood elf twisted sun-beams red 

Into a shapely weed, 
And the tallest birk in Sillarwood 

He hewed into a steed ; 
And shod it wi' the burning gold 

To glance like ony glede. 

The Ettin shook his bridle reins 

And merrily they rung, 
For four and twenty sillar bells 

On ilka side were hung. 

The Ettin rade, and better rade. 

Some thretty miles and three, 

A bugle horn hung at his breast, 

A lang sword at his knee ; 
' I wud I met,' said the Ettin lang, 
' The maiden Marjorie ! ' 

The Ettin rade, and better rade. 
Till he has reached her bouir, 

And there he saw fair Marjorie 
As bricht as lily flouir. 

' Sillarwood ! — Sweet Sillarwood ! - 

Gin Sillarwood were mine. 
The sleuthest hawk o' Sillarwood 
On dainty flesh wud dine ! ' 



74 



' Weel met, weel met,' the Ettin said, 
' For ae kiss o' that hand, 
I wud na grudge my kist o' gold 
And forty fees o' land ! 

' Weel met, weel met,' the Ettin said, 
* For ae kiss o' that cheek, 
I '11 big a bower wi' precious stanes. 
The red gold sal it theik : 

' Weel met, weel met,' the Ettin said, 
' For ae kiss o' thy chin, 
I'll welcome thee to Sillarwood 
And a' that grows therein ! ' 

' If ye may leese me Sillarwood 
Wi' a' that grows therein, 
Ye 're free to kiss my cheek,' she said, 

' Ye 're free to kiss my chin — 
The Knicht that hechts me Sillarwood 
My maiden thocht sal win ! 

' My luve I 've laid on Sillarwood — 
Its bonnie aiken tree — 
And gin that I hae Sillarwood 
I '11 link alang wi' thee ! ' 



75 

Th*en on she put her green mantel 
Weel furred wi' minivere : 

Then on she put her velvet shoon, 
The silver shining clear. 

She proudly vaulted on the black — 
He bounded on the bay — 

The stateliest pair that ever took 
To Sillarwood their way \ 

It's up and sang the gentil bird 

On Marjorie's fair hand — 
' I wudna wend to Sillarwood 
For a' its timbered land — 

Nor wud I lig in Sillarwood 
Tho' gowden glist ilk wand ! 

' The Hunters chace thro' Sillarwood 
The playfu' herte and rae ; 
Nae maiden that socht Sillarwood 
E'er back was seen to gae ! ' 

The Ettin leuch, the Ettin sang, 
He whistled merrilie, 
' If sic a bird,' he said, ' were mine, 
I'd hing it on a tree.' 



76 

' Were I the Lady Marjorie, 
Thou hunter fair but free, 
My horse's head I'd turn about, 
And think nae mair o' thee ! ' 

It's on they rade, and better rade. 
They shimmered in the sun — 

'Twas sick and sair grew Marjorie 
Lang ere that ride was done ! 

Yet on they rade, and better rade. 
They neared the Cross o' stane — 

The tall Knicht when he passed it by 
Felt cauld in every bane. 

But on they rade, and better rade. 

It evir grew mair mirk, 
O loud, loud nichered the bay steed 

As they passed Mary's Kirk ! 

' I 'm wearie o' this eerie road,' 
Maid Marjorie did say — 

' We canna weel greet Sillarwood 
Afore the set o' day ! ' 

' It's no the sinkin' o' the sun 
That gloamins sae the ground. 



77 

The heicbt it is o' Sillarwood 
That shadows a' aroimd.' 

' Methocht, Sir Knicht, broad Sillarwood 

A pleasant bield wud be, 
With nuts on ilka hazel bush, 

And birds on ilka tree — 
But oh ! the dimness o' this wood 

Is terrible to me ! ' 

* The trees, ye see, seem wondrous big, 
The branches wondrous braid, 
Then marvel nae if sad suld be 
The path we hae to tread ! ' 

Thick grew the air, thick grew the trees, 

Thick hung the leaves around. 
And deeper did the Ettin's voice 
In the dread dimness sound — 
' I think,' said Maiden Marjorie, 
' I hear a horn and hound ! ' 

' Ye weel may hear the hound,' he said, 
' Ye weel may hear the horn. 
For I can hear the wild halloo 
That freichts the face o' Morn I 



78 



' The Hunters fell o' Sillarwood 

Hae packs full fifty-three : 
They hunt all day, they hunt all nicht, 
They never bow an ee : 

' The Hunters fell o' Sillarwood 
Hae steeds but blude or bane : 
They bear fiert maidens to a weird 
Where mercy there is nane ! 

' And I the Laird o' Sillarwood 
Hae beds baith deep and wide, 
(Of clay-cauld earth) whereon to streik 
A proud and dainty bride ! 

' Ho ! look beside yon bonny birk — 
The latest blink of day 
Is gleamin' on a comely heap 
Of freshly dug red clay ; 

' Richt cunning hands they were that digged 

Forenent the birken tree 
Where every leaf that draps, frore maid. 

Will piece a shroud for thee — 
It's they can lie on lily breist 

As they can lie on lea ! 



*79 

* And they will hap thy lily breist 
Till flesh fa's afF the bane — 
Nor tell thy freres how Marjorie 
To Sillarwood hath gane ! 

' The bed is strewed, Maid Marjorie, 
Wi' bracken and wi' brier, 

And ne'er will gray cock clarion wind 
For ane that slumbers here — 

Ye wedded have the Ettin stark — 
He rules the Realms of Fear ! ' 



LIKE A WORN GRAY-HAIRED MARINER. 

Like a worn gray-haired mariner whom the sea 
Hath wrecked, then flung in mockery ashore, 
To clamber some gaunt cliff, and list the roar 

Of wave pursuing wave unceasingly ; 
His native land, dear home, and toil- won store 

Inexorably severed from his sight ; 
His sole companions Hopelessness and Grief — 

Who feels his day will soon be mirkest night — 
Who from its close alone expects relief — 

Praying life's sands, in pity, to descend 
And rid him of life's burden, — So do I 
Gaze on the world, and time fast surging by. 

Drifting away each hope with each tried friend - 
Leaving behind a waste where desolate I may die. 



THE LAY OF GEOFFROI RUDEL. 

With faltering step would I depart, 
From home and friend that claimed my heart 
And the big tear would dim mine eye, 
Fixed on the scenes of early years, 
(Each spot some pleasure past endears) 
And I would mingle with a sigh 
The accents of the farewell lay — 
But for my love that's far away ! 

Friends and dear native land, adieu ! 
In hope we part — no tears bedew 
My cheek — no dark regrets alloy 
The buoyant feelings of the hour 
That leads me to my ladye's bower — 
My breast throbs with a wondrous joy. 
While every life-pulse seems to say — 
' Haste to thy love that 's far away ! ' 



ENVIE. 

Ane plante there is of the deidliest pouir 
Quhilk flourischis deeply in the hert ; 

Its lang rutis creip and fald outoure 
Ilka vive and breathen part : 

Lustilie bourgenis the weid anon 

Till hert hath rottit and lyf hath flown. 

Blak is the sap of its baleful stem, 
Lyk funeral blicht its leavis do fal ; 

In its moistoure is quenchit luve's pure flame, 
It drappis rust on inmost saul : 

Lustilie bourgenis the weid anon, 

Till hert hath rottit and lyf hath flown. 

Evir it flourischis meikel and hie, 

Nae stay, nae hindraunce will it bruik ; 

In ae nicht sprynging up, a burdlie tree, 
Schedding its bale at ae single luik : 

Lustilie bourgenis the weid anon. 

Till hert hath rottit and lyf hath flown. 



83 



It canna be kythit to the gudely suii, 
It pynyth sae at his nobil sicht ; 

It shrinkyth quyte like a thing undone 
Quhan luikit on by the blessit licht : 

In hert whence heevinlie luve hath gone 

Thilke evil weid aye bourgenis on. 

Fell Envie's th' plant of mortal pouir 
Quhilk flourischis grenelye in the hert — 

Raining the slawe and poisonous shouir 
Quhilk cankereth the vertuous part : 

Black Envie wherever its seed is sawin, 

Fashion is a hert like the foul Fiend's awin ! 



LOVE'S TOKENS. 

Love's herald is not speech — 

His fear-frausrht tongue is mute — 
His presence is bewrayed 

By blushes deep that shoot 
Athwart the conscious brow, 

And mantle on the cheek, 
Then fleet for tints of snow 

Which soft confusion speak ; 
Thus red and white have place 
By turns on true love's face. 

Love vaunteth not his worth 

In gaudy, glozing phrase, 
His home is not in breast 

Where thought of worldling stays 
In modest loyaltie 

His fountain doth abide ; 
In bosom greatly good 

The lucid pulses tide 
That ebb and flow there ever. 
Till soul and body sever. 



85 



Trust not the ready lip 

Whence flows the fulsome song — 
True love aye gently hymns, 

False love chaunts loud and long. 
Young Beauty, cherish well 

The bashful, anxious eye, 
The lip that may not move, 

The breast that stills the sigh — 
A recreant to thee 
Their lord will never be ! 



SAY NOT PURE AFFECTIONS CHANGE! 

O SAY not pure affections change 
When fixed they once have been, 

Or that between two noble hearts 
Hate e'er can intervene ! 

Though coldness for a while may freeze 
The love-springs of the soul, 

Though angry pride its sympathies 
May for a time control. 

Yet such estrangement cannot last — 

A tone, a touch, a look. 
Dissolves at once the icyness 

That crisp'd affection's brook : 

Again they feel the genial glow 

Within the bosom burn. 
And all their pent-up tenderness 

With tenfold force return ! 



THE ROSE AND THE FAIR LILYE. 

The Earlsburn Glen is gay and green, 

The Earlsburn water cleir, 
And blythely blume on Earlsburn bank 

The broom and eke the brier ! 

Twa Sisters gaed up Earlsburn glen — 
Twa maidens bricht o' blee — 

The tane she was the Rose sae red, 
The tither the Fair Lilye ! 

' Ye mauna droop and dwyne. Sister' — 

Said Rose to fair Lilye — 
' Yer heart ye mauna brek, Sister — 

For ane that's ower the sea : 

' The vows we sillie maidens hear 
Frae wild and wilfu' man, 
Are as the words the waves wash out 
When traced upon the san' ! ' 



88 



' I mauna think yer speech is sooth,' 
Saft answered the Lilye — 

' I winna dout mine ain gude Knicht 
Tho' he 's ayont the sea ! ' 

Then scornfully the Rose sae red 
Spake to the pure Lilye — 
' The vows he feigned at thy bouir door, 
He plicht in mine to me ! ' 

' I'll hame and spread the sheets, Sister, 
And deck my bed sae hie — 
The bed sae wide made for a bride, 
For I think I sune sal die ! 

' Your wierd I sal na be, Sister, 
As mine I fear ye've bin — 
Your luve I wil na cross. Sister, 
It were a mortal sin ! ' 

Earlsburn Glen is green to see, 

Earlsburn water cleir — 
Of the siller birk in Earlsburn Wood 

They framit the Maiden's bier ! 



89 



There 's a lonely dame in a gudely bouir, 

She nevir lifts an ee — 
That dame was ance the Rose sae red, 

She is now a pale Lilye. 

A Knicht aft looks frae his turret tall, 

Where the kirk-yaird grass grows green ; 

He wonne the weed and lost the flouir. 
And grief aye dims his een : 

At noon of nicht, in the moonshine bricht, 
The warrior kneels in prayer — 

He prays wi' his face to the auld kirk-yaird, 
And wishes he were there ! 



YOUNG LOVE. 

It seems a dream the infant love 
That tamed my truant will, 

But 'twas a dream of happiness, 
And I regret it still ! 

Its images are part of me, 

A very part of mind — 
Feelings and fancies beautiful 

In purity combined ! 

Time's sunset lends a tenderer tinge 
To what those feelings were, 

Like the cloud-mellow'd radiance 
Which evening landscapes bear : 

They wedded are unto my soul. 
As light is blent with heat, 

Or as the hallowed confluence 
Of air with odours sweet. 



91 



Though she, the spirit of that dream, 

Lacks of the loveliness 
Young fancy robed her in, yet I 

May hardly love her less : 

Even when as in my boyish time 

I nestled by her side. 
Her ever gentle impulses 

Thorrow my being glide ! 



TO THE TEMPEST. 

Chaunt on, ye stormy voices, loud and shrill 
Your wild tumultuous melody — strip 
The forest of its clothing — leave it bare. 
As a deserted and world-trampled foundling ! 
Lash on, ye rains, and pour your tide of might 
Unceasingly and strong, and blench the Earth's 
Green mantle with your floods : Suddenly swell 
The brawling torrent in the sleep-locked night, 
That it may deluge the subjacent plain. 
And spread destruction where security 
Had fondly built its faith, and knelt before 
The altar of its refuge — Sweep ye down 
Palace and mansion, hall and lofty tower, 
And creeping shed, into one common grave ! 

Ye lightnings that are flashing fitfully — 
(Heaven's messengers) askant the lurid sky. 
Burst forth in one vast sheet of whelming fire — 
Pass through the furnace the base lords of earth. 



93 



With subtile fuiy inextinguishable — 

That, purified, they may again appear 

As erst they were, free of soul-searing sin 

And worldly-mindedness ! For mailed they be, 

Obdurate all, in selfish adamant, 

So rivetted, that it would need a fire 

Potential as the ever-burning pit, 

To overcome and melt it, so that hearts 

Might beat and spirits move to chords sublime. 

Tuned by the hand of the Omnipotent, 

As when man, from His Hands, in His beauty came ! 



GOE CLEED WI' S^IYLIS THE CHEEK! 

GoE deed wi' smylis the cheek, 
Goe fill wi' licht the eye — 

O vain when sorrows seek 
The fontis of bliss to drie ! 

Quhan Hope hath pyned away, 

Quhan carke and care half sprung, 
Quhan hert hath faun a prey 

To grief that hed nae tongue ; 
O then it is nae tyme 

To feinzie quhat we fele, 
Or wi' ane merrie chime, 

To droun the solemne peal 
Quhilk ringis dreir and dul, 
Quhan hert and eyne ar ful. 

Nae joy is thair for me 

In lyf againe to knowe — 
Nae plesuir can I see 

In its fals and fleetinge schew ! — 



95 

Lyk wyld and fearful waste 
Of wavis and bollen sand, 

Apperis the path I've tracit 
In with my natif land : 

Fra it I must depairt, 

And fra al quhilk hed mie hert. 

Farewell to kith and kin, 

Farewell to luve untrew, 
Farewell to burn and lin, 

Farewell to lift sua blew — 
Farewell to banck and brae. 

Farewell to sang and glee — 
Farewell to pastyme gay, 

Quhilk ance delytit me — ■ 
Farewell thou sunny strand. 
Farewell ance kinde Scotland ! 



Fresch flouirs beare mie frend, 
Unto mie earlie graive, 

Thair bid them nevir dwyne, 
But ower mie headstane waive 

Perchance to sume they '11 wake 
Remembrance o' mie dome — 



96 



And though fading, they maye make 

Less lonesum-lyk mie tombe — 
Sins they will emblems be 
Of thy luvinge sympathye. 

Now fareweil day's dear licht — 
Now fareweil frend and fae — 

Hail to the starrie nicht, 

Whair travailit saul maun gae ! 



THE POET'S DESTINY. 

Dark is the soul of the Minstrel — 

Wayward the flash of his eye ; 
The voice of the proud is against him, 

The rude sons of earth pass him by. 

Low is the grave of the Minstrel — 
Ungraced by the chissel of art ; 

Yet his name will be blazoned for ever 

On the best of all 'scutcheons — the heart ! 

Strong is the soul of the Minstrel — 
He rules in a realm of his own ; 

His world is peopled by fancies 
The noblest that ever were known. 

Light is the rest of the Minstrel, 
Though heavy his lot upon earth ; 

From the sward that lies over his ashes 
Spring plants of a heavenly birth ! 
7 



1 MET Wr HER I LUVED YESTREEN. 

I MET wi' her I luved yestreen, 
I met her wi' a look o' sorrow ; 

My leave I took o' her for aye, 

A weddit bride she '11 be the morrow ! 

She durst na gie ae smile to me. 
Nor drap ae word o' kindly feelin'. 

Yet down her cheeks the bitter tears. 
In monie a pearly bead, were stealin'. 

I could na my lost luve upbraid, 

Altho' my dearest hopes were blighted, 

I could na say — ' ye 're fause to me ! ' — 
Tho' to anither she was plighted. 

Like suthfast friens whom death divides. 
In Heaven to meet, we silent parted ; 

Nae voice had we our griefs to speak, 
We felt sae lone and broken-hearted. 



99 



V\\ hie me frae my native Ian', 

Far frae thy blythesome banks o"* Yarrow ! 
Wae's me, I canna bide to see 

My winsume luve anither's marrow ! 

I'll hie me to a distant Ian', 

Wi' down-cast ee and life-sick bosom, 
A weary waste the warld's to me, 

Sin' I hae lost that bonnie blossom ! 



TO THE LADY OF MY HEART. 

They oft have told me that deceit 

Lies hid in dimpled smiles, 
But eyes so chaste and lips so sweet 

Conceal not wanton wiles ! 

I'll trust thee, lady ! — To deceive, 

• Or guileful tale to speak. 
Was never fashioned I believe 
The beauty of thy cheek ! 

Yes, I will trust the azure eye 
That thrilled me with delight, 

The loving load-star of a sky 
Which erst was darkest night. 

Ever, dear maid, in weal or wo. 

In gladness and in sorrow, 
Hand clasped in hand, we'll forward go, 

Both eventide and morrow ! 



THE FAUSE LADYE. 

' The water weets my toe,' she said, 
' The water weets my knee ; 
Haud up, Sir Knicht, my horse's head, 
If you a true luve be ! ' 

' I luved ye weel, and luved ye lang. 

Yet grace I failed to win ; 
Nae trust put I in ladye's troth 
Till water weets her chin ! ' 

' Then water weets my waist, proud lord, 

The water weets my chin ; 
My achin' head spins round about, 

The burn maks sik a din — 
Now, help thou me, thou fearsome Knicht, 

If grace ye hope to win ! ' 

' I mercy hope to win, high dame. 
Yet hand I 've nane to gie — 
The trinklin' o' a gallant's blude 
Sae sair hath blindit me ! ' 



102 

' Oh ! help ! — Oh ! help ! — If man ye be 
Have on a woman ruth — 
The waters gather round my head 
And gurgle in my mouth ! ' 

' Turn round and round, fell Margaret, 
Turn round and look on me — 
The pity that ye schawed yestreen 
I '11 fairly schaw to thee ! 

' Thy girdle-knife was keen and bricht — 
The ribbons wondrous fine — 
'Tween every knot o' them ye knit 
Of kisses I had nine ! 

' Fond Margaret ! Pause Margaret ! 
You kissed me cheek and chin — 
Yet, when I slept, that girdle-knife 
You sheathed my heart's blude in ! 

^ Pause Margaret ! Lewde Margaret ! 
The nicht ye bide wi' me — 
The body, under trust, you slew, 
My spirit weds wi' thee ! ' 



MY AIN COUNTRIE. 

Ye bonnie haiighs and heather braes 
Whair I hae daft youth's gladsome days, 
A dream o' by-gane bliss ye be 
That gars me sigh for my ain countrie ! 

Lancr dwinin' in a fremit land 

Doth feckless mak' baith heart and hand, 

And starts the tear-drap to the ee 

That aye was bricht in the auld countrie 



Tho' Carron Brig be gray and worn, 
Where I and my forebears were born, 
Yet dearer is its time-touched stone 
Than the halls of pride I now look on. 



As music to the lingerin' ear 
Were Carron's waters croonin' clear ; 
They call to me, where'er I roam, 
The voices o' my long-lost home ! 



104 

And gin I were a wee wee bird, 
Adown to licht at Randie Ford, 
In Kirk O' Muir I'd close mine ee, 
And fald mv win2;s in mine ain countrie ! 



TO A FRIEXD AT PARTING.* 

Farewell , my friend ! — Perchance again 
I '11 clasp thee to a faithful heart — 

Farewell my friend ! — We part in pain, 
Yet we must part ! 

Were this memento to declare 

All that the inward moods portray, 

Dark boding grief were pictured there, 
And wild dismay ! 

For thee, my fancy paints a scene 
Of peace on life's remoter shore — 

Thy wishes long fulfilled have been, 
Or even more : 

* The ' Friend at Parting ' was Mr. Robert Peacock, at 
present (July, 1848) resident, I believe, in Germany. — K. 



106 



And when success hath crowned thy toil, 
And hope hath raised thy heart to Heaven - 

Thou well mayst love the generous soil 
Where love was given. 

For me, my friend, I fear there's nought, 

In dim futurity, of gladness ; 
There ever rises on my thought 

A dream of sadness : 

Yet gazing upon guileless faces, 

Sunned by the light of laughing eyes, 

I recreant were to own no traces 
Of social ties. 

Even I may borrow from another 
The smile I fain would call my own, 

Striving, with childish art, to smother 
The care unknown. 

Farewell ! Farewell ! — All good attend thee 
At home, abroad — on land, or sea — 

That Heaven may evermore befriend thee. 
My prayer shall be ! 



107 

Should a dark thought of him arise 
Whose parting hand thou must resign, 

Let it go forth to stormy skies, 
Not tarnish thine : 

Never may Melancholy's brood 
Disturb the fountain of thy joy. 

Nor dusky Passion's fitful mood 
Thy peace alloy ! 

' Up, anchor ! up ! ' — The mariner 

Thus hymns to the inconstant wind — 
Heave not one sigh, where'er you steer, 
For me behind ! 



I PLUCKED THE BERRY. 

I've plucked the berry from the bush, the brown nut 

from the tree, 
But heart of happy little bird ne'er broken was by 

me ; 
I saw them in their curious nests, close couching, slyly 

peer 
With their wild eyes, like glittering beads, to note if 

harm were near : 
I passed them by, and blessed them all ; I felt that it 

was good 
To leave unmoved the creatures small whose home is 

in the wood. 

And here, even now, above my head, a lusty rogue 

doth sing. 
He pecks his swelling breast and neck, and trims his 

little wing. 



109 



He will not fly ; he knows full well, while chirping on 

that spray, 
I would not harm him for a world, or interrupt his 

lay: 
Sing on, sing on, blythe bird ! and fill my heart with 

summer gladness, 
It has been aching many a day with measures full of 

sadness ! 



SONG. 

O LIGHT, licht was maid Ellen's fit — 

It left nae print behind, 
Until a belted Knicht she saw 

Adown the valley wind ! 

And winsome was maid Ellen's cheek. 

As is the rose on brier, 
Till halted at her father's yett 

A lordly cavalier. 

And merrie, merrie was her sang, 
Till he knelt at her boiiir — 

As lark's rejoicin' in the sun, 
Her princely paramour. 

But dull, dull now is Ellen's eye. 
And wan, wan is her cheek, 

And slow an' heavy is her fit 

That lonesome paths would seek : 



Ill 

And never sang does Ellen sing 
Amang the flowers sae bricht, 

Since last she saw the dancin' plume 
Of that foresworne Knicht ! 



TO 



I NEVER dreamed that lips so sweet, 
That eyes of such a heavenly hue, 

Were framed for falsehood and deceit. 

Would prove, as they have proved — untrue. 

Methought if love on earth e'er shone, 
'Twas in the temple of thine eyes. 

And if truth's accents e'er were known, 
'Twas in the music of thy sighs. 

Has then thy love been all a show. 
Thy plighted truth an acted part — 

Did no affection ever glow 

In the chill region of that heart ? 

And could'st thou seem to me to cling 
Like tendril of the clasping vine. 

Yet all prove vain imagining, 

Thy soul yield no response to mine ? 



113 



It has been so — so let it be — 

Rejoice, thou false one, in thy guile, 

Others, perhaps, may censure thee, 
I would not dim thy fickle smile. 

Farewell ! — In kindness I would part, 
As once I deemed in love we met — 

Farewell ! — This wrong'd and bleeding heart 
Can thee Forgive, but not Forget ! 



THE KNIGHT'S REQUIEM. 

They have waked the knight so meikle of might, 

They have cased his corpse in oak ; 
There was not an eye that then was dry, 

There was not a tongue that spoke. 
The stout and the true lay stretched in view, 

Pale and cold as the marble stone ; 
And the voice was still that like trumpet shrill, 

Had to glory led them on ; 
And the deadly hand whose battle brand 

Mowed down the reeling foe, 
Was laid at rest on the manly breast. 

That never more mought glow. 

With book, and bell, and waxen light, 

The mass for the dead is sung ; 
Thorough the night in the turret's height, 

The great church-bells are rung. 



115 



Oh wo ! oh wo ! for those that go 

From light of life away, 
Whose limbs may rest with worms imblest, 

In the damp and silent clay ! 

With a heavy cheer they upraised his bier, 

Naker and drum did roll ; 
The trumpets blew a last adieu 

To the good knight's martial soul. 
With measured tread thro' the aisle they sped, 

Bearing the dead knight on. 
And before the shrine of St. James the divine, 

They covered his corpse with stone : 
'Twas fearful to see the strong agony 

Of men who had seldom wept, 
And to hear the deep groan of each mail-clad one. 

As the lid on the coffin swept. 

With many a groan, they placed that stone 

O'er the heart of the good and brave. 
And many a look the tall knights took 

Of their brother soldier's grave. 
Where banners stream and corslets gleam 

In fields besprent with gore, 
That brother's hand and shearing brand 

In the van should wave no more : 



116 

The clarions call on one and all 

To arm and fight amain, 
Would never see, in chivalry. 

Their brother's make again ! 

With book, and bell, and waxen light, 

The mass for the dead is sung. 
And thorough the night in the turret's height, 

The great church-bells are rung. 
Oh wo ! oh wo ! for those that go 

From the light of life away. 
Whose limbs must rest with worms unblest, 

In the damp and silent clay ! 



THE ROCKY ISLET. 

Pekchance, far out at sea, thou may'st have found 
Some lean, bald cliff — a lonely patch of ground, 
Alien amidst the waters : — some poor Isle 
Where summer blooms were never known to smile, 
Or trees to yield their verdure — yet, around 
That barren spot, the dimpling surges throng. 
Cheering it with their low and plaintive song. 
And clasping the deserted cast-away 
In a most strict embrace — and all along 
Its margin, rendering freely its array 
Of treasured shell and coral. Thus we may 
Note love in faithful woman ; oft among 
The rudest shocks of life's wide sea she shares 
Man's lot, and more than half his burden bears 
Around whose path are flowers, strewn by her 
tender cares. 



THE PAST AND THE FUTURE. 

I've looked, and trusted, sighed, and loved my last ! 
The dream hath vanished, the hot fever's past 

That parched my youth ! 
Though cheerless was the matin of my years. 
And dim life's dawning through a vale of tears, 

Yet Hope, in ruth, 
With smile persuasive, evermore would say — 
' Live on, live on ! — Expect Joy's summer day ' — 

Vain counsel, void of truth ! 

Yes, to the world I 've clung with fond embrace, 
And each succeeding day did more efface 

Its hollow joys. 
And friends died out around me every where. 
And I was left to be the idle stare 

Of vagrant boys — 
A land-mark on the ever-shifting tide 
Of fashion, folly, impudence and pride, 

And ribald noise. • 



119 



Yes, I have lived, and lived until I knew 
The world ne'er alters its ungrateful hue, 

And glance malign ; 
And though, at times, some chance-sown noble spirit 
[ts wilderness a season may inherit. 

In want and pine, 
Yet these be weeded soon, and pass away, 
All unbefriended, to their funeral clay ! 

Array thyself for flight, my soul, nor tarry — 
Thou bird of glory ne'er wert doomed to marry 

A sphere so rude — 
But to be mated with some hermit star, 
O'er heaven's soft azure keeping watch afar, 

In pulchritude : 
Uplift thy pinions, seek thy resting-place. 
Where kindred spirits long for thy embrace — 

Dear brotherhood. 



OH, TURN FROM ME THOSE RADIANT 
EYES ! 

Oh, turn from me those radiant eyes, 

With love's dark lightning beaming, 
Or veil the power that in them lies 

To set the young heart dreaming ! 
Oh, dim their fire, or look no more. 

For sure 'tis wayward folly 
To make a spirit, gay before. 

To droop with melancholy ! 

Ungen'rous victor ! not in vain 

Thy wild wish to subdue me — 
To woo once more thy glance I'm fain, 

Even should that glance undo me : 
What pity that thy lips of rose 

So fitted for heart healing, 
Should not, with tenderest kisses, close 

The wounds thine eyes are dealing ! 



O THINK NAE MAIR O' ME, SWEET 
MAY I 

O THINK nae mair o' me, sweet May ! 

O think nae mair o' me ! 
I'm but a wearied ghaist, sweet May, 

That hath a wierd to dree ; 
That langs to leave a warld, sweet May, 

0' eerie dull and pain. 
And pines to gang the gate, sweet May, 

That its first luve hath gane ! 

Although the form is here, sweet May, 

The spirit is na sae ; 
It wanders to anither land — 

A far and lonely way. 
My bower is near a ruined kirk. 

Hard by a grass-green grave. 
Where, fed wi' tears, the gilliflowers 

Above a true heart wave ! 



122 

Then think nae mair o' me, sweet May, 

If I had luve to gie. 
It sulci na need a glance but ane 

To bind me, dear, to thee. 
But blossoms twa o' life's best flower 

This heart it canna bear — 
It cast its leaves on Mary's grave. 

And it can bloom nae mair ! 



THE LOVE-LORN KNIGHT AND THE DAMSEL 

prriLESs. 

'Uplift the Gonfanons of war — exalt the ruddy 
Rood — 

Arise ye winds and bear me on against the Paynim 
brood ! 

Farewell to forest-cinctured halls, farewell to song and 
glee, 

For toilsome march and clash of swords in glorious 
Galilee ! 

And grace to thee, haught damoisel — I ask no part- 
ing tear — 

Another love may greet thee when I 'm laid upon my 
bier ! 

' My bark upon the foaming flood shall bound before 

the gale, 
Like arrow in its flight, until the Holy Land we hail ; 



124 



Then firmly shall our anchors grasp the belt of East- 
ern land, 

For planks will shrink and cordage rot ere we regain 
this strand ; 

And welcome be the trumpet's sound, the war-steed's 
tramp and neigh. 

And death, for Palestina's cause, in the battle's hot 
mellay ! ' 

O never for that love-lorn youth did vessel cleave the 
seas ! 

The hand of death was on the lips that wooed the 
ocean breeze ; 

They bare him to the damoisel, they laid him at her 
knee. 

Though knight and pilgrim wept aloud — no tear dropt 
that ladye — 

Three times she kissed the clay-cold brow of her un- 
bidden guest. 

Then took the vows at Mary's shrine, and there her 
ashes rest. 



LOVE IN WORLDLYNESSE. 

The gentle heart, the truthful love, 

Have flemed this earth and fled to Heaven 

The noblest spirits earliest prove . 

Not Here below, but There above, 

Is Hope no shadow — Bliss no swcven ! 

There was a time, old Poets say, 

When the crazed world was in its nonage. 
That they who loved were loved alwaye, 
With faith transparent as the day, 

But this, meseems, was fiction's coinage. 

We cannot mate here as we ought. 

With laws opposed to simple feeling ; 
Professions are, like lutestring, bought. 
And worldly ties soon breed distraught. 
To end in cold congealing ! 



126 



Forms we have worshipped oft become, 

If haply they affect our passion, 
Though faultless, icy cold and dumb, 
Because we are not rich, like some. 

Or proud — Such is this strange world's fashion ! 

Rapt Fancy lends to unchaste eyes 

Ideal beauty, and on faces 
Where red rose blent with lily tries 
For mastery, in wanton wise. 

Bestows enchanting graces : 

Yet, as we gaze, the charms decay 

That promised long with these to linger ; 

Of love's delight we 're forced to say. 

It melts like dreamer's wealth away. 

Which cheers the eye but mocks the finger ! 

And, therefore, move I calmly by 

The siren bosom softly heaving. 
And mark, untouched, the tempter's sigh. 
Or make response with tranquil eye — 

' Kind damsel, I am past deceiving ! ' 

Long sued I as a man should do, 

With cheek high flushed by deep emotion — 



127 

My lady's love had no such hue, 
Hard selfishness would still break through 
The glowing mask of her devotion ! 

No land had I — but I had health — 
No store was mine of costly raiment — 

My lady glided off by stealth 

To wed a lozel for his wealth — 
And this was Loyalty's repayment !, 

The language of the trusting heart, 

The soothfast fondness firm, but tender — 

Are now to most a studied part, 

A tongue assumed, a trick of art, 
Whereof no meaning can I render. 

And hence I say that loyal love 

Hath flemed the Earth and fled to Heaven ; 
And that not Here, but There above, 
Souls may love rightfully, and prove 

Hope is no shadow — Bliss no swcven ! 



A NIGHT VISION. 

Lucina shyning in silence of the nicht ; 
The hevin being all full of starris bricht ; 
To bed I went, hot there I tuke no rest, 
"With hevy thocht I was so sair oppressed, 
That sair I langit after dayis licht. 
Of fortoun I complainit hevely. 
That echo to me stude so contrarously ; 
And at the last, quhen I had turnyt oft 
For werines, on me ane slummer soft 
Came, with ane dreming and a fantesy. 

Dunbar. 

I HAD a vision in the depth of night — 

A dream of glory — one long thrill of gladness — 

A thing of strangest meaning and delight ; 

And yet upon my heart there came such sadness, 

And dim forebodings of my after years, 

That I awoke in sorrow and in tears ! 

There stood revealed before me a bright maid. 
Clad in a white silk tunic, which displayed 
The beautiful proportions of her frame ; 
And she did call upon me by my name — 



129 



And I did marvel at her voice, and shook 
With terror, but right soon the smiling look 
Of gentleness, that radiant maiden threw 
From her large sparkling eyes of deepest blue, 
Did reassure me. Breathless, I did gaze 
Upon that lovely one, in fond amaze. 
And marked her long white hair as it did flow, 
With wanton dalliance, o'er the pillared snow 
Of her swan-like neck ; — and then my eye grew dim 
With an exceeding lustre, for the slim 
And gauze-wove raiment of her bosom fair. 
Was somewhat ruffled by the midnight air ; 
And as it gently heaved, there sprung to view 
Such glories underneath — such sisters two 
Of rival loveliness! Oh, 'twere most vain 
For fond conceit to fancy such again. 
The robe she wore was broidered fetouslye 
With flour and leaf of richest imagery e ; 
And threads of gold therein were entertwined 
With quaintest needlecraft ; and to my mind 
It seemed, the waist of this most lovely one 
Was clipped within a broad and azure zone, 
Studded with strange devices — One small hand 
Waved gracefully a slender ivory wand. 
And with the other, ever and anon. 
She shook a harp, which, as the winds sighed past, 
9 



130 



Gave a right pleasant and bewitching tone 
To each wild vagrant blast. 

Meseems, 
After this wondrous guise, that maiden sweet 
Stood visible before me, while the beams 
Of Dian pale, laughed round her little feet 
With icy lustre, through the narrow pane ; 
And this discourse she held in merry vein ; 
Although methought 'twas counterfeited, and 
The matter strange, that none might understand. 

She told me, that the moon was in her wane — 
And life was tiding on, and that the world 
Was waxen old — that nature grew unkind. 
And men grew selfish quite, and sore bechurled — 
That Honour was a bubble of the mind — 
And Virtue was a nothing undefined — 
And as for Woman, She, indeed, could claim 
A title all her own — She had a name 
And place in Time's long chronicles. Deceit — 
And Glory was a phantom — Death a cheat ! 

She said I might remember her, for she 
Had trifled with me in mine infancy ; 
And in those days, that now are long agone. 
Had tended me, as if I were her own 



131 



And only offspring. When a very child, 

She said, her soothing whispers oft beguiled 

The achings of my heart — that in my youth, 

She, too, had given me dreams of Honour, Truth, 

Of Glory and of Greatness — and of Fame — 

And the bright vision of a deathless name ! 

And she had turned my eye, with upward look, 

To read the bravely star-enamelled book 

Of the blue skies — and in the rolling spheres 

To con strange lessons, penned in characters 

Of most mysterious import — she had made 

Life's thorny path to be all sown with flowers 

Of diverse form and fragrance, of each shade 

Of loveliness that glitters in the bowers 

Of princely damoisels, — Nay, more, her hand 

Had plucked the bright flowers of another land. 

Belike of Faerye, and had woven them 

Like to a chaplet, or gay diadem. 

For me to wear in triumph — But that she 

Had fostered me so long, she feared, I 'd spoil 

With very tenderness, nor ever be 

Fit for this world's coarse drudgery and moil : 

Did she not even now take leave of me. 

And her protecting, loving arms uncoil 

For ever and for ever, — and though late, 

Now leave me to self-guidance, and to fate. 



132 



Then passed that glorious spirit, and the smile 
She whilome wore fled from her beauteous cheek : 
And paleness, and a troubled grief the while 
Subdued her voice. — Methought I strove to speak 
Some words of tender sympathy, and caught 
Her small white trembling hand, but, she, distraught, 
Turned her fair form away, and nearer drew 
To where the clustering ivy leaves thick grew. 
And shaded half the casement — There she stood. 
Like a tall crystal column, in the flood 
Of the fair moonshine, and right thoughtful-wise 
She seemed to scan the aspect of the skies ; 
Sudden a tremulous tear filled either eye. 
Yet fell not on her cheek, but dubiously. 
Like dew gems upon a flower, hung quivering there ; 
And, like a love-crazed, maiden, she half sang. 
Half uttered mournful fancies in despair ; 
And indistinctly in my ear there rung 
Something of years to be, — of dark, dark years. 
Laden with sorrow, madness, fury, tears — 
Of days that had no sunshine — and of nights 
Estranged from slumber — of harsh worldly slights — 
Of cruel disappointments — of a hell 
That gloweth in the bosom, fierce and fell, 
Which may not be extinguished — of the pains 
Of journeying through lone and trackless plains 



133 



Which have no limits — and of savage faces, 
That showed no trait of pity ! 

Then that maid 
Stretched her long arms to heaven, and wept for shame ; 
And as upon her soul dim bodements came. 
Once more, in veriest sadness, thus she said : 
' I may not cheer him more ! I may not breathe 
Life in his wasting limbs, nor healthy fire 
In his grief-sunken eye — I may not wreathe 
Fresh flowers for him to gaze on, nor inspire 
Delicious dreamings, when the paly host 
Of cares and troubles weigh his spirit down. 
And hopes delayed, in worse despair are lost ; 
Unaided, he may sink upon the path, 
No hand of succour near, nor melting eye 
To yield its pittance poor of sympathy ; 
Already, too successful have I weaved 
My tiny web of folly ; undeceived. 
At length, he'll view its baseless fabrick pass. 
Like fleeting shadows o'er the brittle glass, 
Leaving no substance there ; and he may curse, 
With bitter malison, his too partial nurse, 
And charge Jier with his sufferings ! ' 



134 



So wept 
That maid, in seeming sorrow, till there fell 
From her lips Grief's volume-word — Farewell ! 
And then, methought, she softly passed away, 
As a thin mist of glory on a ray 
Of purest moonshine ; or like starlet bright 
Sailed onward through the ocean of the night ! 

And then, meseems, I heard the wailing sound 
Of a wind-harp afar, and voice of one 
Who sung thereto a plaintive melody ; 
And some words reached me, but the rest were drowned 
In dimest distance, and the hollow moan 
Of the night-breezes fitful sweeping by ; 
Yet these stray words, erewhile on earth they fell, 
Told Hope had pitying smiled before her last farewell. 

Then all grew dark and loveless, and afar 
I saw the falling down of many a star. 
As the moon paled in sorrow — And the roar 
Of darkly tumbling floods I heard, that dashed 
Through the deep fissures of the rifted rock — 
While phantoms flitted by with ghastly mock, 
And jeers malign — and demons on me glar'd 



135 

Looks of infernal meaning ; then in silence 
Troop'd onwards to their doom ! 

Starting, I broke 
Sleep's leaden bonds of sorrow, and awoke, 
Wondering to find my eye-balls red with tears ! 
And my breast heaving with sepulchral fears. 



THIS TS NO SOLITUDE. 

This is no Solitude ; these brown woods speak 
In tones most musical — this limpid river 
Chaunts a low song, to be forgotten never ! — 
These my beloved companions are so meek, 
So soul-sustaining, I were crazed to seek 
Again the tumult, the o'erpowering hum. 
Which of the ever busy hiving city come — 
Parting us from ourselves. — Still let us breathe 
The heavenly air of contemplation here ; 
And with old trees, grey stones, and runnels clear, 
Claim kindred and hold converse. He that seeth 
Upon this vesper spot no loveliness. 
Nor hears therein a voice of tenderness. 
Calling him friend. Nature in vain would bless ! 



THE LONE THORN. 

Beneath the scant shade of an aged thorn, 

Silvered with age, and mossy with decay, 
I stood, and there bethought me of its morn 

Of verdant kistyhood, long passed away ; 
Of its meridian vigour, now outworn 

By cankering years, and by the tempest's sway 
Bared to the pitying glebe. — Companionless, 

Stands the gray thorn complaining to the wind — 
Of all the old wood's leafy loveliness 

The sole memorial that lags behind ; 
Its compeers perished in their youthfulness. 

Though round the earth their roots seemM firmly 
twined : 
How sad it is to be so anchored here 
As to outlive one's mates, and die without a tear ! 



THE SLAYNE MENSTREL. 

Ane harper there was — ane harper gude — 
Cam' harpin"* at the gloamin' fa' — 

And he has won to the bonnie bield 
Quhilk callit is the Newtoun Ha'. 

' Brume, brume on hil' — the harper sang — 
' And rose on brier are blythe to see — 
I would I saw the brume sae lang, 

Quhilk cleidis the braes o' my ain countree ! ' 

' Out on ye, out, ye prydefu' loun, 
Wi' me ye winna lig the nicht — 
Hie to some horde! in borrowe toun : 
Of harpand craft I baud but licht ! 

' Out on ye, out, ye menstrel lewde' — 

Sayd the crewel Laird o' the Newtoun Ha' — 

' Ye 'II nae bide here, by blessit Rude, 
Gif harpe or lyf ye reck ava' ! ' 



139 

' I care na for mie lyf ane plack ' — 
Quoth that auld harper sturdilie — 

' But this gude harpe upon mie back 
Sal ne'er be fylit by ane lyk thee ! ' 

' Thou liest there, thou menstrel wicht ! ' 

Outspak the Laird o' the Newtoun Ha' — 

' For ye to death bedene are dicht, 

Haif at thee here and mend thy saw ! ' 

Alace, Alace, the harper gude 

Was borne back aganis the wa', 
And \vi' the best o' his auld hertis blude, 

They weetit hae the Newtoun Ha' ! 

Yet did he die wi' harpe in han', 
Maist lyk ane menstrel o' degree — 

There was na ane in a' the land 

Might matche wi' him o' the North countree ! 



o 



Erie Douglas chauncit to ryde therebye — 
Ane gallant gentleman was he — 

Wi' four score o' weel harnessit men, 
To harrie in the South countree. 



140 



He haltit at the Newtoun Ha' — 
' Qubat novelles now, bauld Laird, hae ye ? ' 
' It 's I haif slayne a worthlesse wicht, 

Ane menstrel lewde, as you may see ! ' 

* Now schaw to me the harper's heid, 

And schaw to me the harper' hand, 
For sair I fear you've causeless spilt 
As gentil blude as in a' Scotland ! ' 

* Kep then his heid, thou black Douglas ' — 

Sayd boastfullie fase Newtoun Ha' — 
' And kep his hand, thou black Douglas, 
His fingers slim his craft may schaw ! ' 

The stout Erie vysit first the heid. 
Then neist he lukit on the hand — 

* It's foul befa' ye, Newtoun Ha', 

Ye 've slayne the pryde o' gude Scotland ! 

' Now stir ye, stir, my merrie men. 
The faggot licht, and bete the flame, 
A fire sal rise o'er this buirdly bield. 

And its saulless Laird in the lowe we '11 tame ! ' 



141 

The bleeze blew up, the bleeze dipt roun' 
The bonny towers o' the Newtoun Ha\ 

And evir as armit men ran out, 

Black Douglas slewe them ane and a'. 

The bleeze it roarit and wantonit roun' 
The weel-pilet wawis o' the Newtoun Ha', 

And ruif and rafter, bauk and beam, 
Aneath the bauld fyris doun did fa' ! 

Now waly for the crewel Laird — 
As he cam loupin' through the lowe, 

Erie Douglas swappit aff his heid 
And swung it at his saddil bowe ! 



THE MERMAIDEN. 

' The nicht is mirk, and the wind blaws schill, 
And the white faem weets my bree, 
And my mind misgi'es me, gay maiden, 

That the land we sail never see ! ' 
Then up and spak' the mermaiden. 
And she spak' blythe and free, 
' I never said to my bonnie bridegroom, 
That on land we sud weddit be. 

' Oh ! I never said that ane erthlie priest 

Our bridal blessing should gi'e. 
And I never said that a land wart bouir 

Should hauld my love and me.' 
' And whare is that priest, my bonnie maiden, 

If ane erthlie wicht is na he ? ' 
' Oh ! the wind will sough, and the sea will rair. 

When weddit we twa sail be.' 



143 



' And whare is that bouir, my bonnie maiden, 

If on land it sud na be ? ' 
' Oh ! my blythe bouir is low,' said the mermaiden, 
' In the bonnie green howes of the sea : 
My gay bouir is biggit o' the gude ships' keels. 

And the banes o' the drowned at sea ; 
The fisch are the deer that fill my parks, 
And the water waste my dourie. 

' And my bouir is sklaitit wi' the big blue waves. 

And paved wi' the yellow sand, 
And in my chaumers grow bonnie white flowers 

That never grew on land. 
And have ye e'er seen, my bonnie bridegroom, 

A leman on earth that wud gi'e 
Aiker for aiker o' the red plough'd land. 

As 1 '11 gi'e to thee o' the sea ? 

' The mune will rise in half ane hour, 

And the wee bright starns will schine ; 
Then we '11 sink to my bouir, 'neath the wan water 

Full fifty fathom and nine ! ' 
A wild, wild skreich gi'ed the fey bridegroom. 

And a loud, loud lauch, the bride ; 
For the mune raise up, and the twa sank down 

Under the silver'd tide. 



SONG. 

He courted me in parlour, and he courted me in ha', 
He courted me by Bothwell banks, amang the flowers 

sae sma'. 
He courted me wi' pearlins, wi' ribbons, and wi' rings. 
He courted me wi' laces, and wi' mony mair braw 

things; 
But O he courted best o' a' wi' his black blythesome 

ee, 
Whilk wi' a gleam o' witcherie cuist glaumour over 

me. 

We hied thegither to the Fair — I rade ahint my joe, 
I fand his heart leap up and doun, while mine beat 

faint and low ; . 
He turn'd his rosy cheek about, and then, ere I could 

trow, 
The widdifu' o' wickedness took arles o' my mou ! 
Syne, when I feigned to be sair fleyed, sae pawkily 

as he 
Bann'd the auld mare for missing fit, and thrawin him 

ajee. 



145 



And aye he waled the leanings lang, till we drew near 

the town, 
When I could hear the kimmers say — ' There rides a 

comely loiin ! ' 
I turned wi' pride and keeked at him, but no as to be 

seen, 
And thought how dowie I wad feel, gin he made love 

to Jean ! 
But soon the manly chiel, aff-hand, thus frankly said 

to me, 
* Meg, either tak me to yoiirsel, or set me fairly free ! ' 

To Glasgow Green I link'd wi' him, to see the ferlies 

there, 
He birled his penny wi' the best — what noble could 

do mair ? 
But ere ae fit he'd tak me hame, he cries — ' Meg, tell 

me noo : 
Gin ye will hae me, there 's my lufe, I '11 aye be leal 

an' true.' 
On sic an honest, loving heart how could I draw a 

bar? 
What could I do but tak Rab's hand, for better or for 

waur ? 

10 



THE LEAN LOVER. 

I PACED, an easy rambler, 

Along the surf- washed shore — 
And watched the noble freightage 

The swelling ocean bore. 
I met a moody fellow 

Who thus discoursed his wo — 
' Across the inconstant waters, 

Deceitful woman, go ! 

' I loved that beauteous lady — 

More truly wight ne'er loved — 
I loved that high-born lady. 

My faith she long had proved : 
Her troth to me she plighted 

With passion's amorous show — 
Go o'er the inconstant waters, 

Ungrateful worldling, go ! 



147 

' Be mine yon clifF-perched chapel 

Which beetles o'er the deep ; 
There, like some way-worn palmer, 

I '11 sit me down and weep. 
I '11 note upon the billows 

Her lessening sail of snow, 
And waft across the waters — 

Go, fleeting fair one, go ! ' 

He clambered to the chapel 

That toppled o'er the deep — 
There, like a way-worn palmer. 

He laid him down to weep : 
And still I heard his wailing 

Upon the strand below — 
' Go o'er the inconstant waters, 

Go, faithless woman, go ! ' 



AFFECTE3T THOU THE PLEASURES OF 
THE SHADE? 

Affectest thou the pleasures of the shade, 

And pastoral customs of the olden time, 

When gentle shepherd piped to gentle maid 

On oaten reed, his quaint and antique rhyme ? 

Then welcome to the green and mossy nook, 

The forest dark and silver poppling brook 

And flowers in fragrant indolence that blossom 

On the sequestered valley's sloping bosom — 

Where in the leafy halls glad strains are pealing, 

The woodland songsters' amorous thoughts revealing 

Look how the morning's eager kisses wake 

The clouds that guard the Orient, blushing red — 

Behold heaven's phantom-chasing Sovereign shake 

The golden honours of his graceful head 

Above that earth his day-dawn saw so fair ! — 

Now damsels lithe trip lightsomely away, 

To bathe their clustered brows and bosoms bare 

In virgin dews of budding, balmy May ! 



MUSIC. 

Strange how the mystically mingled sound 

Of voices rising from these rifted rocks 

And unseen valleys — whence no organ ever 

Thundered harmonious its stupendous notes, 

Nor pointed arch, nor low-browed darksome aisle, 

Rolled back their mighty music — seems to me 

An ocean vast, divinely undulating. 

Where, bathed in beauty, floats the enraptured soul 

Now borne on the translucent deep, it skirts 

Some dazzling bank of amaranthine flowers, 

Now on a couch of odours cast supine, 

It pants beneath overpowering redolence : — 

Buoyant anon on a rejoicing surge. 

It heaves, on tides tumultuous, far aloft. 

Until it verges on the cope of heaven, 

Whence issued, in their unity of joy. 

The anthems of the earth-creating Morn : 

Yielding again to an entrancing slumber, 

In sweet abandonment, it glideth on 



150 



To amber caves and emerald palaces, 
Where the lost Seraphs — welcomed by the mam- 
Their lyres suspended in their time of sorrow, 
Amid the deepening glories of the flood ; — 
There the rude revels of the boisterous winds 
The tranquillous waves afflict not, nor dispart 
The passionate clasping of their azure arms ! 



THE SHIP^WRECKED LOVER. 

The Port-Reeve's maid has laid her down 

Upon a restless pillow, 
But wakeful thought is wandering 

Ayont the ocean billow. 
Her love 's away — he 's far away — 

A world of waves asunder — 
Around him now the storm may burst 

With fearful peals of thunder ! 

gut yet — the night-wind's breath is faint, 

The night-beam entereth meekly ; 
But when the moon's fair face is free. 

Strange she should shine so weakly ! — 
Yet guided by her waning beam 

His ship must swim securely — 
Beneath so fair a sky as this 

He '11 strike his haven surely ! 



152 

There came a knocking to the door, 

That hour so lone and stilly ; 
And something to the maiden said — 

* Arise for true love Willie ! ' 
Another knock ! another still — 

Three knocks were given clearly — 
Then quickly rose the Port-Reeve's maid 

Her seaman she loved dearly ! 

And first she saw a streak of light, 

Like moonshine cold and paly ; 
And then she heard a well-known step — 

The maiden's pulse beat gaily ! 
She saw a light, she heard a step, 

She marked a figure slender 
Across the threshold pass like thought, 

And stand in her lone chamber. 

It paced the chamber once and twice. 

It crossed it three times slowly — 
But when she to her Maker prayed. 

It fled like sprite unholy. 
The form the vanished shadow wore 

Was of her true love Willie — 
O not a breath escaped the lips 

That pallid looked and chilly ! 



153 

Long motionless the maiden stood, 

In wonder, fear, and sorrow — 
A tale of wreck, a tale of wo 

Was told her on the morrow ! 
The ship of her returning hopes 

Had sunk beneath the billow — 
The ocean-shell, the ocean-weed 

Were now her lover's pillow ! 



HOLLO, MY FANCY! 

Hollo, my Fancy ! Thou art free- 
Nor bolt nor shackle fetters thee ! 
Thy prison door is cleft in twain, 
And Nature claims her child again ; 
Doff the base weeds of toil and strife, 
And hail the world's returning life ! 

Up and away ! 'Tis Nature's voice 
Bids thee hie fieldward and rejoice ; 
She calls thee from' unhallowed mirth 
To walk with beauty o'er the earth ; 
Proudly she calls thee forth, and now 
Prints blandest kisses on thy brow ; 
On lip, on cheek, on bosom bare, 
She pours the balmy morning air : 
The fulness of a mother's breast 

Swells for thee in this gracious hour ; 
Up, Sluggard, up ! from dreams unblest, 

And let thy heart its love outpour ! 



155 

Up, Sluggard, up ! all is awake 

With song and smile to welcome thee ; 
The flower its timid buds would break 

Wert thou but once abroad to see ! 
Teeming with love, earth, ocean, air 
Are musical with grateful prayer ! 
Each measured sound, each glorious sight, 
Personifies intense delight ! 
The breeze that crisps the summer seas. 
Or softly plains through leafy trees. 
Or, on the hill-side, stoops to chase 
The wild kid in its giddy race — 
The breeze that, like a lover's sigh, 
Of mingled fear and ecstasy, 
Plays amorous over brow and cheek, 
Methinks it has a voice to speak 
The joys of the awakening morn — 
When, on exulting pinion borne, 
The lark, sole monarch of the sky. 
Pours from his throat rich melody. 

Hollo, my Fancy ! Fast a-field, 
Aurora's face is just revealed : 
Night's shadows yet have scantly sped 
Midway up yonder mountain's head — 
While in the valley far below. 



156 

The misty billows, ebbing, show 
Where fairy isles in beauty glow ; 
Delicious spots of elfin green. 
Emerging from a world unseen, 
Of dreams and quaintest phantasies — 
Spots that would the Faerye Queen 
To a very tittle please ! 
Away the shadowy phantoms roll. 

Up-borne by the rising breeze. 
Fluttering like some banner scroll ; 

While, peering o'er the silent seas 
Of yon far shore, thou may'st descry 
The red glance of the Day-Star's eye ! 

Hollo, my Fancy ! Let us trace 
The breaking of the vestal dawn ! 

Through dappled clouds, with stealthy pace, 
It travels over mount and lawn. 
Lacings of crimson and of gold, 
Threaded and twined an hundred-fold, 
Bar the far Orient, while the sea 
Of molten brass appears to be. 
And lo ! upon that glancing tide 
Vessels of snowy whiteness glide : 
Some portward, self-impelled are steering, 
Some in the distance disappearing ; 



157 



And some, through mingled light and shade, 

Like visions gleam — like visions fade. 

Strange are these ocean mysteries ! 

No helmsman on the poop one sees, 

No sailor nestled in the shrouds, 

Singing to the passing clouds. 

But let us leave old Neptune's show. 

And to the dewy uplands go ! 

Now skyward, in a chequered crowd, 

Rolls each rosy-edged cloud, 

Flaunting in the upper air 

Many a tabard rich and rare ; 

And mantling, as they onward rush. 

Every hill top with a blush, 

To dissolve, streak after streak. 

Like rose tints on a maiden's cheek. 

When, in wanton waggish folly. 

The chord of love's sweet melancholy 

Is rudely smitten, and the cheek 

Tells tales the lip might never speak. 

Hollo, my Fancy ! It is good 
To seek soul-soothing solitude ; 
To leave the city, and the mean. 
Cold, abject things that crawl therein ; 
Flee crowded street and painted hall, 



158 

Where sin rules rampant over all ; 

To roam where greenwoods thickest grow, 

Where meadows spread and rivers flow, 

Where mountains loom in mist, or lie 

Clad in a sunshine livery ; 

Wander through dingle and through dell, 

Which the sweet primrose loveth well ; 

And where, in every ivied cranny 

Of mouldering crag, unseen by any, 

Clouds of busy birds are dinning 

Anthems that welcome day's beginning : 

Or, like lusty shepherd groom, 

Wade through seas of yellow broom ; 

And, with foot elastic tread 

On the shrinking floweret's head, 

As it droops with dew-drops laden. 

Like some tear-surcharged maiden : 

Skip it, trip it deftly, till 

Every flower-cup liquor spill. 

And green earth grows bacchanal, 

Freed from night's o'ershadowing pall ; 

Or let us climb the steep, and know 

How the mountain breezes blow. 

Hither, brave Fancy ! Speed we on, 
Like Judah's bard to Lebanon ! 



159 

Every step we take, more nigh 

Mounts the spirit to the sky. 

Sounds of life are waxing low 

As we high and higher go, 

And a deeper silence given " 

For choice communing with heaven ; 

On this eminence awhile 

Rest we from our vigorous toil : 

Forth our eyes, mind's scouts that be, 

Cull fresh food for fantasy ! 

Like a map, beneath these skies, 

Fair the summer landscape lies — 

Sea, and sand, and brook, and tree. 

Meadow broad, and sheltered lea. 

Shade and sunshine intermarried, 

All deliciously varied : 

Goodly fields of bladed corn, 

Pastures green, where neatherd's horn 

Bloweth through the livelong day, 

Many a rudely jocund lay : 

There be rows of waving trees, 

Hymning saintliest homilies 

To the weary passer by. 

Till his heart mount to his eye. 

And his tingling feelings glow 

With deep love for all below, 



160 

While his soul, in rapturous prayer, 
Finds a temple everywhere. 
See, each headland hath its tower, 
Every nook its own love bower — 
While, from every sheltered glen, 
Peep the homes of rustic men ; 
And apart, on hillock green, 
Is the hamlet's chapel seen : 
Mingled elms and yews surround 
Its most peaceful burial ground ; 
Like sentinels the old trees stand. 
Guarding death's sleep-silent land. 
Adown the dell a brawling burn. 
With wimple manifold, doth spurn 
The shining pebbles in its co'urse. 
Foaming like spur-fretted horse — 
A mighty voice in puny form, 
Miniature of blustering storm. 
It rates each shelving crag and tree 
That would abridge its liberty. 
And roundly swears it will be free ! 
'Tis even so, for now along 
The plain it sweeps with softened song ; 
And there, in summer, morn and noon, 
And eve, the village children wade. 
Oft wondering if the streamlet's tune 
Be by wave or pebble made ; 



161 

But, unresolved of doubt, they say- 
Thus it tunes its pipe alway. 

Wood-ward, brave Fancy ! Over-head 
The Sun is waxing fiery red ; 
No cloud is floating on the sky 
To interrupt his brilliancy, 
Or mar the glory of his ray 
While journeying on his lucid way. 
But here, within this forest chase, 
We '11 wander for a fleeting space, 
'Mid walks beneath whose clustering leaves 
Bright noontides wane to sober eves,^ 
And where, 'mong roots of timbers old, 
Pale flowers are seen like virgins cold — 
(Virgins fearful of the Sun, 
Most beautiful to look upon) — 
In some soft and mossy nook, 
Where dwells the wanderer's eager look. 

Until the Sun hath sunken down 
Over the folly-haunting town. 
And curious Stars are forth to peer 
With frost-like brilliance, silvery clear, 
From the silent firmament — 
Here be our walk of sweet content. 
11 



162 

Around is many a sturdy oak 

Never scaithed by woodman's stroke ; 

Many a stalwart green-wood tree, 

Loved of Waithman bold and free, 

When the arrow at his side, 

And the bow he bent with pride, 

Gave the right to range at will, 

And lift whatever broad shaft might kill. 

Here, belike famed Robin Hood, 

Or other noble of the wood, 

Clym of the Cleuch, or Adam Bell, — 

Young Gandelyn that shot full well, — 

Will Cloudeslie, and Little John, 

Or Bertram, wight of blood and bone, 

Plied their woodcraft, maugre law : 

Raking through the green-wood shaw, 

Bow in hand, and sword at knee. 

They lived true thieves, and Waithmen free. 

In the twilight of this wood — 
And, awe-breathing solitude — 
Heathens of majestic mind. 
Might a fitting temple find 
Underneath some far-spread oak, 
Nature blindly to invoke. 
What is groined arch to this 
Mass of moveless leafiness f 



163 

What are clustered pillars to 
The gnarled trunk of silvery hue, 
That, Titan-like, heaves its huge fornn 
Through centuries of change and storm> 
And stands as it were planted there, 
Alike for shelter and for prayer? 

Hither, my jocund Fancy ! Turn, 
And note how Heaven's pure watchfires burn 
In yonder fields of deepest blue. 
Investing space with glories new ! 
And hark how in the bosky dell 
Warbles mate -robbed Philomel ! 
Every sound from that glade stealing 
Sadness woos with kindred feeling — ■ 
The notes of a love-broken heart 
Surpass the dull appeal of art ; 
Here rest awhile, for every where. 

On lake, lawn, tower, and forest tree, 
Falleth in floods the moonshine fair — • 

How beautiful night's glories be ! 
No stir is heard upon the land, 

No murmur from the sea ; 
The pulse of life seems at a stand 

As nature quaffeth, rapturously, 
From yonder ambient worlds of light, 
Deep draughts of passionate delight. 



164 

Hollo, my Fancy ! It is well 
To ponder on the spheres above — 
To bid each fount of feeling swell 
Responsive to the glance of love. 
See ! trooping in a gladsome row, 
How steadfastly these tapers glow ; 
And light up hill and darksome glen 
To cheer the path of wand'ring men. 
And eke of frolic elf and fay 
That haunt the hollow hill, or play 
By crystal brook, or gleaming lake. 
Or dance until the green wood shake 
To fits of choicest minstrelsie. 
Under the cope of the witch elm-tree. 

When all is hush around and above, 
Then is the hour to carpe of love ; 
When not an eye but ours is waking, 
Nor even the lightest leaflet shaking — 
When, like a newly-captured bird. 
The fluttering of the heart is heard ; 
When tears come to the eye unbidden. 
And blushing cheeks are in bosom hidden ! 
While hand seeks softer hand, and there 
Seems spell-bound by the amorous air — 
When love, in very silence, finds 
The tone that pleads, the pledge that binds. 



165 

Hollo, my Fancy ! Whither bounding ? 
Go where rolling orbs are sounding, 
This dull nether world astounding 
With celestial symphonies ; 
Inhale no more the soft replies 
Which gurgling rills and fountains make, 

Nor feed upon the fervid sighs 
Of winds that fan the reedy lake ; 

Leave all terrestrial harmonies 
That flow for pining minstrel's sake. 

Skyward, adventurous Fancy ! Dare 
To cleave the ocean of the air ; 
Soaring on thy vane-like wings 
Rise o'er earth and clod-like things. 
Smite the rolling clouds that bar 
Thy progress to those realms afar ; 
Career it with the Sisters seven. 
Pace it through the star-paved heaven ; 
Snatch Orion's baldrick, — then. 
Astride, upon the Dragon, dare 
To hunt the lazy-footed Bear 
Around the pole and back again ; 
Scourge him tightly, scourge him faster, 
Let the savage know his master ! 



166 

And, to close the mighty feat, 
Light thy lamp of brave conceit 
With some grim, red-bearded star, 
(Sign of Famine, Fire, and War,) 
And hang it on the young moon's horn 
To show how poet thought is born* 



LOVE'S POTENCIE. 

If men were fashioned of the stone, 
Then might they never yield to love — 

But fashioned as they are, they owne 
(On earth, as in the realme above,) 

That Beauty, in perfection, stil 

Controls the thoughts, impels the wil. 

And sure 'twere vaine to stemme the tide 
Of passion surging in the breast — 

Since fierce ambition, stubborn pryde 

Have each the sovereigne power confest ; 

Which rolleth on, despite all stale. 

Sweeping ilk prudent shifte awaye. 

What though the mayden that we love 
May fail to meet the troth we bear — 

Nor once its generous warmth approve. 
Nor bate one jot of our despaire — 

Doth not the blind dictator say — 

' Thou foolish wichte pyne on alwaie ! ' 



168 

We cannot read the wondrous lawes 
That knit the soul to lovelinesse ; 

We feel their influence, but their cause 
Remains a theme of mysticknesse — 

We only know Love may not be 

O'ermastered by WiPs energie. 

Nor would I wish to break the dream 
Of troubled joy ; that still is mine — 

Albeit that the cheering gleam 

Of hope hath almost ceased to shine - 

So long as Beauty light doth give, 

My heart must feel, its love must live ! 



LIFE. 

O Life ! what is thy quest ? — What owns this world 

Of stalking shadows, fleeting phantasies, 

Enjoyments substanceless — to wed the mind 

To its still querulous, ever-faltering mate — 

Or crib the pinion of the aspiring soul 

(Upborne ever by the mystical) 

To a poor nook of this sin-stricken earth, 

Or sterile point of time ? — The Universe, 

My spirit, is thy birth-right — and thy term 

Of occupance, thou river, limitless — 

Eternity ! 



SUPERSTITION. 

Dim power ! by very indistinctness made 

More potent, as the twilight's shade 

Gives magnitude to objects mean ; 

Thou power, though deeply felt, unseen. 

That with thy mystic, undefined. 

And boundless presence, fills my mind 

With unimaginable fears, and chills 

My aching heart, and all its pulses stills 

Into a silence deeper than the grave. 

That erst throbbed quick and brave ! 

Wherefore, at dead of night, by some lone stream, 

Dost thou, embodying its very sound 

In thy own substance, seem 

To speak of some lorn maiden, who hath found 

Her bridal pillow deftly spread 

Upon the tall reeds' rustling head. 

And the long green sedges graceful sweep, 

Where the otter and the wild drake sleep ? 



171 



And wherefore, in the moonshine clear, 

Doth her wan form appear 

For ever gliding on the water's breast 

As shadowy mist that hath no rest. 

But wanders idly to and fro 

Whithersoe'er the wavering winds may blow ? 

Thou mystic spirit, tell, 

Why in the hollow murmurs of that bell 

Which load the passing wind. 

Each deep full tone but echoes to my mind 

The footfall of the dead — 

The almost voiceless, nameless tread, 

And restless stirring to and fro of those 

To whom the grave itself can never yield repose. 

But whose dark, guilty sprites 

Wander and wail with glowworm lights 

Within the circle of the yew-tree's shade. 

Until the gray cock flaps his wings. 

And the dubious light of mom upsprings 

O'er yonder hoar hill's dewy head ? 

And say, while seated under this gray arch 
W^here old Time oft in sooth 
Hath whet his pitiless tooth, 



172 



And gnawed clean through 

Its ivy and moss-velvet coat of greenest hue, 

I watch the moon's swift march 

Through paths of heavenly blue : 

Methinks that there are eyes which gaze on me, 

And jealous spirits breathing near, who be 

Floating around me, or in pensive mood 

Throned on some shattered column's ivied head. 

Hymning a warning lay in solitude. 

Making the silent loneness of the place 

More chilly, deep, and dead. 

And more befitting haunt for their aerial race ? 

Terribly lovely power ! I ask of thee. 

Wherefore so lord it o'er my phantasye, 

That in the forest's moaning sound. 

And in the cascade's far-off muttered noise, 

And in the breeze of midnight, and the bound 

And leap of ocean billows heard afar, 

I still do deem these are 

The whispering melodies of things that be 

Immortal, viewless, formless — not of earth, 

But heaven descended, and thus softly 

At midnight mingling their wild mirth : 

Or, when pale Dian loves to shroud 



173 



Her fair and glittering form, beneath the veil 

Of watery mist or dusky fire-edged cloud, 

And giant shadows sail 

With stately march athwart the heaven's calm face ; 

Say then, why unto me is given 

A clearer vision, so that I do see 

Between the limits of the earth and heaven 

A bright and marvellous race — 

A goodly shining company — 

Flaunting in garments of unsullied snow. 

That ever and anon do come and go 

From star to hill-top, or green hollow glen, 

And so back again ? 

Those visions strange, and portents dark and wild. 

That in fond childhood had a painful pleasure, 

Have not, by reason's voice, been quite exiled. 

But still possess their relish in full measure ; 

And by a secret and consummate art 

At certain times benumb my awe-struck heart — 

Making it quail, but not with dastard fear. 

But strange presentiment and awe severe. 

With curious impertinence to pry 

Behind the veil of dim futurity. 

And that undying hope that we may still 

Grasp at the purpose of the Eternal Will, 



YE VERNAL HOURS! 

Ye vernal hours, glad days that once have been ! 
When life was young, and hopes were buddmg seen ! 
When hearts were blythe, and eyes were glistening 

bright. 
And each new morn awoke to new delight ; 
Ye happy days that softly passed away 
In boyish frolic and fantastic play ! 
Why have ye fled ? why left no more behind, 
Ye sunbright relics of my earlier years. 
Than that faint music which, the viewless wind 
At midnight, to the lonely wanderer bears 
From sighing woods, to melt him into tears ? 
The bridled stream by art may backwards flow. 
Youth's fires, once spent, again shall never glow ; 
The flower-stalk broke, each blossom must decay, 
And youth, once past, for aye hath past away ! 



COME, THOU BRIGHT SPIRIT! 

Come, thou bright spirit of the skies, 
With witching harp or potent lyre, 
And bid those magic notes arise 
That kindle souls, and tip with fire 
The prophet's lips. Begin the strain, 
That like the trumpet's stirring sound 
JVlakes the lone heart to bound 
From death-like lethargy to life again, 
Bracing the slackened nerve and limb, 
And calling from the eye, all sunk and dim, 
Unwonted fire and noble daring ; 
Or wake that soothing melody 
That stills the tumults of the heart despairing, 
With all its many murmurings small, 
Of soft and liquid sounds that be 
Like to the music of a water-fall. 
Heard from the farthest depths of some green wood, 
In quiet moon-lit night, that stills the mood 



176 



Of painful thought, and fills the soul 

With pleasant musings, such as childhood knows 

When basking on some green- wood shady knoll, 

And weaving garlands with the drooping boughs. 

Or dost thou sing of woman — of the eye 

That pierces through the heart, and wrays 

Its own fond secrets by a sympathy 

That scorns slow words and idle phrase ? 

Or of the lips that utter wondrous love, 

And yet do scarcely move 

Their ruby portals to emit a sound. 

Or syllable a name, but round and round 

Irradiate themselves with pensive smiles ? 

Or of the bosom, stranger to the wiles 

And thoughts of worthless worldlings, which doth 

swell 
With soft emotion underneath its cover. 
And speaks unto the keen-eyed conscious lover 
Thoughts, feelings, sympathies, tongue ne'er could 

tell ? 
Sing'st thou of arms — of glory in the field — 
Where patriots meet in death's embrace. 
To reap high honours where the clanging shield 
And gleaming spear — the swayful ponderous mace, 
And the shrill trumpet rings aloud its peal 



177 

Of martial music furious and strong ; 

Where ardent souls together throng 

And struggle in the press of griding steel, 

And fearful shout and battle cry, 

Herald the quivering spirit's sigh, 

That leaves the strife in agony. 

And as it fleets away, still throws 

Its stern defiance on its conquering foes, 

Shrieking in wrath, not fear ? 



12 



LAYS OF THE LANG BEIN RITTERS. 

Among the ungarnered Poems left by the late Mr. Mother- 
well, I have found certain wild, romantic, and melancholy 
measures, fittingly enshrined in a story of Teutonic spirit 
and colouring, entitled ' The Doomed Nine, or the Lang Bein 
Ritters.' To publish the prose narrative lies not within the 
purpose of this selection — but the songs, which conveyed to 
us a very singular pleasure in days endeared to memory by 
the delights of friendship, may not inaptly form the concluding 
strains of a volume whose general aspect accords well (too 
well) with the Poet's cast of thought and premature depar- 
ture. — K. 

THE RITTERS RIDE FORTH. 

' On the eastern bank of the noble Rhine stood a lofty tower, 
named the Ritterberg j and, in the pleasant simple days of 
which we speak, it was held by nine tall knights, men of huge 
stature and prodigious strength, whose principal amusement 
was knocking off the heads of the unfortunate serfs who in- 
habited the fruitful valleys circumjacent to their stronghold. 
They madly galloped over meadow and mountain, through 
firth and forest, blowing their large crooked hunting horns, 
and ever and anon uplifting their stormy voices in song.' — 
Motherwell. 

O BEAUTIFUL valley, 
We scar not thy bosom ; 
O bright gleaming lake, we 
Disturb not thy slumber ; 



179 

O tall hill, whose gray head 

Is weeping in heaven, 

We come not to pierce thro' 

Thy dim holy chambers — 

We see thee and love thee. 

And never will mar thee : — 

O beautiful valley, 

Bright lake, and tall mountain. 

The Ritters ride forth ! 

Churls scratch, with the base share, 

The flower-girdled valley ; 

And sheer, with the sharp keel, 

The dream-loving billow ; 

They pierce to the heart of 

The grand giant mountain. 

And fling on the fierce flame 

His pale yellow life-strings. 

We come to avenge thee, 

To slay the destroyer. 

O beautiful valley. 

Bright lake, and tall mountain, 

The Ritters ride forth ! 



LAY OF THE BROKEN-HEARTED AND 
HOPE-BEREAVED MEN. 

^ Some of those who had been bereaved by these merciless 
marauders, and would not be comforted, then paced towards 
the hills, and looked back on the scenes of their youth. They 
sang with melancholy scorn and embittered passion, this que- 
rulous ditty, which later generations have remembered as the 
" Lay of the Broken-hearted and Hope-bereaved men," who 
went up to the hollowed mountain, where they shut themselves 
up in a cavern, building up its mouth strongly with huge 
stones ; and there, in sunlessness and unavailing sorrow, these 
broken-hearted ones died.' — Motherwell. 

The rude and the reckless wind, 

ruthlessly strips 
The leaf that last lingered on 

old forest tree ; 
The widowed branch wails for 

the love it has lost ; 
The parted leaf pines for 

its glories foregone. 
Now sereing, in sadness, and 

quite broken-hearted, 



181 

It mutters mild music, and 

swan-like on-fleeteth 
A burden of melody, 

musing of death, 
To some desert spot where, 

unknown and unnoted. 
Its woes and its wanderings may 

both find a tomb, 
Far, far from the land where 

it grew in its gladness, 
And hung from its brave branch, 

freshly and green, 
Bathed in blythe dews and 

soft shimmering in sunshine, 
From morn until even-tide, 

a beautiful joy ! 



DREAM OF LIFE'S EARLY DAY, FAREWELL 
FOR EVER. 



'Others of the "Broken-hearted and Hope -bereaved men," 
as they went on their way, poured forth these melancholy 
measures.' — Motherwell. 



Bright mornings ! of beauty and bloom, that, in boy- 
hood, 

Gleamed gay with the visionings glorious of glad hope ; 

Dear days ! that discoursed of delights never-dying, 

And painted each pastime with tints of pure pleasure ; 

Bright days, when tlie heart leapt like kid o'er the 
mountain. 

And gazed on the fair fields — one full fount of feel- 
ing— 

When wood and when water, flower, blossom, and 
small leaf. 

Were robed in a sunshine that seemed everlasting ; 

Ye were but a dream, and like dream have departed ! 
Oh ! Dream of Life's early day, farewell for ever. 



183 



As the pale cloud that ch'cled in morning the hill top, 

Flitteth, in fleecy wreaths, fast in the sun-blaze ; 

Or, as the slim shadows steal silently over 

The gray walls at noon-tide, so ghost-like on-gliding, 

And leave not a line for remembrance to linger on ; 

So soon and so sadly have terribly perished 

The joys we did muse of in youth's mildest morn ; 

Time spreads o'er the brow soon his pale sheaf of 

sorrow, 
And freezes each heart-fount that whilome gushed 

freely ; 
Oh ! Dream of Life's early day, farewell for ever. 

The woods and the waters, the great winds of heaven, 
Sound on and for ever their grand solemn symphonies ; 
The moon gleams with gladness, — the wakeful stars 

wander. 
With bright eyes of beauty, that ever beam pleasure ; 
The sun scatters golden fire — bright rays of glory — 
Till proud glows the earth, graithed in harness from 

heaven ; 
The fields flourish fragrant with summer flower blos- 
soms ; 
Time robs not the earth of its brightness and braveries, 
But he strips the lorn heart of the loves that it lived by. 
Oh ! Dream of Life's early day, farewell for ever. 



1S4 



We have sought for the smiles that shed sunshine 

around us, 
For the voices that mingled mind-music with ours ; 
For hearts whose roots grew where the roots of our 

own grew, 
While pulse sang to pulse the same lay of love-longing. 
In the fair forest firth, on the wide waste of waters, 
By brooks that gleam brightest, and banks that blush 

bravest, 
On hill and in hollow, green holm, and broad meadow, 
We have sought for these loved things, but never could 

find them, 
We have shouted their names, and sad echoes made 

answer. 
Oh ! Dream of Life's early day, farewell for ever. 



THE RITTERS RIDE HOME. 

As eagles return to their eyrie, 
Gorged with the flesh of the young kid, 
Even so we return from the battle — 
The banquet of noble blood. 
We are drunk with that ruddy wine ; 
We are stained with its droppings all over ; 
We have drunk till our full veins are bursting, 
Till the vessel was drained to its dregs — 
Till the tall flaggons fell from our hands, 
That were wearied with ever uplifting them : 
We have drank till we no longer could find 
The liquor divine of heroes. 

The Ritters ride home ! 

Ask where great glory is won ? 
Enquire of the desolate land ; 
Of the city that hath no life, 
Of the bay that hath no white sail. 
The land that is trenched with mad feet, 
13 



186 



Which turned up the soil in despair ; 
The city is silent and fireless, 
And each threshold is crowded with dry bones ; 
The bay glitters sheenly in sunlight, 
No oar shivers now its clear mirror ; 
The mast of the bark is not there, 
Nor the shout of the mariner bold. 
But the sea-maidens know of strange men, 
Beclasped in strong plaits of iron : 
They know of the pale-faced and silent, 
Who sleep underneath the waves, 
And never shall waken again 
To stride o'er the beautiful dales, 
The green and the flower-studded land. 
The Ritters ride home ! 

We have come from the strife of shields ; 
From the bristling of mighty spears ; 
From the smith-shop, where brynies were anvils, 
And the hammers were long swords and axes. 
We have come from the mounds of the dead. 
Where hero forms lay like hewn forests ; 
Where rivers run red in the sun, 
And the ravens of heaven were made glad ! 
The Ritters ride home ! 



187 

The small ones of earth pass away, 
As chaff they have drifted and gone. 
When the angry winds rush from the North, 
And sound their great trumpets of wrath. 
The tempest-steeds rush forth to battle, 
They plough up the earth in their course. 
They hollow a grave for the dead, 
As the share scoops a bed for the seed. 
The Ritters ride home ! 

Beautiful ! beautiful ! beautiful ! 
Is the home-coming of the War-faring ; 
Of them who have swam on the ocean ; 
Of fountains that spring from great hearts. 
The sunshine of glory's around them ; 
Their names are the burthen of sono-s : 
Their armour and banners become 
The richest adornments of halls. 
The Ritters ride home ! 

Beautiful ! beautiful ! beautiful ! 
Sounds the home coming of the War-faring ; 
And their triumph-song echoes for ever 
'Mid the vastness of gloomy Valhalla. 
The Ritters' last home ! 



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